


To Bare Our Teeth and Our Hearts

by queerofthedagger



Series: Merlin Stories [5]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Assumed Character Death, BAMF!Merlin, Don't copy to another site, Dream Sharing, F/M, Found Family, Good!Mordred, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Merlin actually meets other magic users, Merlin's Magic Revealed (Merlin), Minor Character Death, Minor Gwaine/Merlin (Merlin), POV Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), POV Merlin (Merlin), Past Gwen/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Post-Season/Series 03, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Swearing, Temporary Character Death, Worldbuilding, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:48:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 124,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26326645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queerofthedagger/pseuds/queerofthedagger
Summary: An execution was not exactly on Merlin's bucket list, wasn't even what destiny had intended for him, but it would figure that Uther Pendragon's final act would be one last strike against magic. On the bright side—because Merlin's nothing if not desperate for silver linings—he gets to learn more about magic and its still existing community than the castle he has once called home could've ever offered him. And when he finally returns, things might've just changed enough for all of them to have a chance at a better future than fate had planned.Arthur, for his part,reallywants to catch a break, and to stop thinking about his late manservant. It should probably be less of a shock that it does not work out so neatly. Between concerning dreams, the realisation of just how wrong his father was—about nearly everything, really—and trying to deal with the loss of the person closest to him, Arthur learns a few things about making choices that aren't always easy, but right.Or sometimes, things have to go downhill first before they get better, and if Uther had known about the eventual outcome, he might've changed his mind for once in his life.
Relationships: Gwaine & Merlin (Merlin), Gwen/Lancelot (Merlin), Merlin & Mordred (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: Merlin Stories [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1728040
Comments: 323
Kudos: 751





	1. and I didn't like the ending

**Author's Note:**

> Hey!
> 
> I've been working on this fic for the past few months, and I'm so excited to finally share it. I have the first 10 chapters written and 2-3 more to go, and it'll probably end up being around 100k words. Updates will be once a week. 
> 
> This is canon-compliant all through season 3, and deviates in that one-year-gap before season 4. There's a lot of angst going on here, but I promise they'll get their happy ending that they all deserve. 
> 
> A huge shoutout to my beloved Merlin-wife Atlanta, who has cheered me on, bounced off ideas, and beta'd a lot of this all throughout my struggle with it. I love you very much and this wouldn't have happened without you. ❤️ (While you're here, [go check out her fics.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atlanta_Black/pseuds/Atlanta_Black) They're fantastic.) 
> 
> The chapter title comes from [Taylor Swift - exile ft. Bon Iver](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=osdoLjUNFnA)
> 
> Please do not repost my work anywhere or list it on goodreads (or similar sites).

Arthur urges his horse into a trot, ignoring the questioning looks from his knights until they simply follow his lead. Their patrol has gone well for the most part, but then Leon’s horse lost a shoe and they had to stop at a village, so now they’re going to be back in Camelot a day later than they were planning to.

It’s not the delay in itself that’s bothering him though. There’s something uneasy in the air, a sense of apprehension brimming underneath his skin that he can’t quite place, and he wants to set his mind to rest by reaching the castle as soon as possible.

He turns his head, hoping to distract himself by teasing Merlin and maybe gauge if he can feel it too, but remembers at the last moment that he’s not with them, for once. Gaius had fallen sick, and Merlin had stayed behind to take care of him and his patients.

Arthur would never admit it, but the absence of Merlin’s inane chatter is more unsettling than it has any right to be.

After another hour, they finally reach the castle, only to be stopped by a dozen guards at the gates. “Prince Arthur, your father requests your presence immediately,” one of them says, shifting from foot to foot and avoiding his eyes.

“My father is up?” he asks, unable to hide his surprise, and he exchanges a glance with Leon. It’s been months since Morgana’s betrayal, but his father has only been getting worse.

The guard nods but doesn’t say anything else. They follow the group into the courtyard, and the weird sense of foreboding intensifies when he sees the pyre that’s standing in the middle of it. There are already people gathered around, watching him and his knights in silence but quickly turning away when they notice his attention on them.

Arthur dismounts and hands his reins to Gwaine, who silently inclines his head before he disappears towards the stables, followed by the others.

Turning towards the castle, he startles slightly when a hand on his arm stops him.

“Your father expects you on the balcony,” the guard says, and he’s not sure if he’s more surprised by his father and uncle standing on the balcony, or the fact that none of the guards seems inclined to leave him alone.

He frowns but follows them while trying to spot a familiar face in the crowd—this whole thing is getting more ominous with every second, and a heavy weight settles in his stomach. To raise his father from his apathy, it must be someone fairly important or at least unexpected. For Arthur to be accompanied by several guards, it can only mean that they’re either dangerous or someone he knows.

Scanning the crowd again, he can’t find anyone he knows. Neither Merlin or Gaius, nor Guinevere seem to be there, but he’s stopped from considering it further when they enter the stairway up to the balcony.

“Arthur,” Agravaine greets him, a thin smile twisting his lips. “We had expected you back earlier. No matter, you’re just in time.”

Arthur inclines his head to him and his father, before stepping up to the latter. “Who is it, father? What happened?” he murmurs, dreading the answer but needing to ask anyway.

His father glances at him, but his face gives away nothing. He’s thinner than he used to be, pale skin stretching over his cheekbones, but his eyes are hard, and his jaw is set, and Arthur is certain that nobody but him can see the exhaustion lingering underneath.

“You’ll see. Let this be another lesson to show you that nobody can be trusted and that sorcery hides in many forms,” his father answers and turns away, a clear dismissal. At his nod to some of the guards beneath them, there’s a commotion at the entrance to the dungeons as a person is brought out.

He barely keeps himself from craning his neck to get a better view, his father’s cryptic remark doing nothing to loosen the knot in his chest, and his hands clench tightly at his sides.

When the person is finally led out of the throng of people and his eyes fall onto a familiar mop of black hair, it knocks all the breath out of him. “You can’t be serious!” he hisses, turning to stare at his father. “There must’ve been a mistake! There’s absolutely no way Merlin is a sorcerer.”

Uther glares at him, a muscle in his jaw jumping. “He was seen by your uncle himself. He used magic on one of the horses, the one you usually ride. Obviously, an attempt to tamper with it.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he insists, drawing his shoulders back. “Why would he do that if he had a hundred better chances to kill me for years now?”

“He admitted it, Arthur,” Uther says, and he takes an actual step back at the words. “He admitted that he’s a sorcerer—“

“But not that he tried to harm me?” Arthur interrupts, his thoughts whirring while nausea is welling up within him.

“I’ve told you many times that those who use magic are deceitful, will try to trick you and hit when you least expect it. Admitting that he used magic in the heart of Camelot is more than enough reason!”

His father was getting angry now, impatience obvious in the way he grips Arthur’s arm tightly.

Still, it’s _Merlin_ , for god’s sake. Merlin couldn’t harm anyone if he wanted to, and there must still be some mistake, something Arthur doesn’t know yet. Something he won’t find out if his father goes through with this.

He shakes his head, trying to dispel the thoughts and glancing down into the courtyard where they’re just securing Merlin to the pyre, the heavy iron around his neck and wrists gleaming in the light of the setting sun.

“Father, I really don’t think—“

“That’s enough!” Uther hisses, his glare burning into him. “My decision is final and you’d do good to learn something from all this. Otherwise, I may be forced to believe that you knew about his treason.”

“I’d never—“ he chokes, but Uther’s attention is back down in the courtyard now, and he gives a simple nod to the man who’s holding a torch.

Arthur doesn’t want to look, doesn’t want to witness his friend—

Well, and that’s the problem, isn’t it? Was Merlin ever really his friend? Does he even know the man? His eyes snap down to him on their own accord, and he finds Merlin already staring at him, gaze intent and unwavering despite the position he’s in.

Next to him, Uther clears his throat. “Once again, magic tried to attack Camelot, and once again, we stopped it before it could succeed. Let this be a warning to our enemies—no matter how hard you try, we will never allow you to spread your wickedness among us!”

Merlin is still staring at him, and when he speaks, his voice carries easily through the courtyard. “I am a warlock, I was born with magic. I never used it to harm Camelot or its people, only to protect.” His gaze shifts to Arthur’s father and his expression hardens in a way Arthur’s not sure he has ever seen on him before. “It is your guilt that is driving your hatred, Uther Pendragon, and I would pity you if you hadn’t slaughtered so many innocents. You have only yourself to blame for what you have lost.”

Uther snarls and brings down his hand, indicating for the guard to light the pyre. Merlin’s eyes are back on Arthur though, calm and collected as he stands tall despite flames already licking at the dry wood at his feet.

Arthur swallows, the ache in his chest growing by the second and it’s like he can’t draw a single breath, can’t tear his eyes away either as the fire grows higher. “I can’t watch this,” he chokes, but the grip his father has on his shoulder keeps him firmly in place.

“You can and you will.”

Resentment starts burning in the back of his throat and he wrenches himself free. “This isn’t right and you know it! Don’t you remember how many times he saved my life?”

Before he can move farther, four guards appear behind him and even though they’re still keeping a distance, the message is more than clear. He considers his chances in a fight, the deep sense of wrongness, of everything in him screaming and begging him to _stop this_ , clashing with his confusion and the burning sense of betrayal.

It’s like he’s getting pulled into two directions. He just wants to know, to _understand_ , to have a way to determine if maybe his father is right, after all, no matter how much it hurts to even consider it.

A gut-wrenching scream makes his blood freeze and he whirls back around, watching as the flames engulf Merlin who’s now merely a writhing shadow in a sea of yellow and red and orange.

It’s joined by another shout, and Arthur’s eyes snap to someone pushing through the crowd, needing only seconds to recognize Gwaine. He’s held back by guards, four of them necessary to keep him away from the pyre, and Arthur doesn’t know if he should be glad or disappointed that they succeed.

This is all just way too much, and when Gwaine meets his eyes, he can do nothing but look away from the accusation and burning anguish he finds there, even over the distance.

Merlin’s screams have stopped, only to be replaced by the acrid smell of burning flesh, and Arthur has to swallow against the bile that’s rising in his throat.

“One day, you will thank me for this,” Uther says lowly, and a part of Arthur wants to rage at him, to hurl into his face that he will never forgive him for this, but another part, the one raised to be king someday, insists that he’s still missing too many pieces.

Betrayal and grief and a weird sense of disconnection from reality are brewing a toxic mixture of confusion within him, and as soon as his father steps away from the balcony, he disappears into the direction of his chambers as fast as his shaky legs carry him.

The moment the door closes behind him, he slumps against it and buries his face in his hands. Merlin is dead. Merlin is— _was_ a sorcerer—or a warlock if Arthur is inclined to believe him.

Merlin’s last words come back to him, the blunt admission of what Arthur still can’t believe. Everything that’s happened since they’ve arrived back at the castle seems like a dream, or maybe a nightmare if he’s honest with himself. He’d prefer it right now, would take a hundred nightmares over what is only slowly sinking in as real.

He lifts his head and stares around the chambers that seem unnaturally cold and empty even though nothing has changed. There are still clothes hanging over the changing-screen, a few pieces of armour lying by the fire where Merlin usually sits to polish it, and books and parchment scattered on the desk.

Well—where Merlin _used_ to sit, and that knocks the breath out of him all over again. His head is spinning, and the unanswered questions lingering at the edge of his mind are becoming more and more insistent. He needs to do something if he doesn’t want to go insane, and if that is getting answers, then so be it.

He needs to hear from someone other than his father, who has been drowning more in his grief than anything else for the last few months or, gods help him, _Agravaine_ , what actually happened.

The name of his uncle, who is apparently the one responsible for this whole disaster, sends an unexpected bolt of resentment through him and he frowns. It’s not his uncle’s fault that Merlin broke the law, knowingly, and then went and admitted it. But that knowledge does nothing to ease the twitching of his fingers, the desire for someone to pay for all this.

Shaking his head, he clenches his jaw and leaves the room. Only when he’s already halfway to the physician chambers does he remember that he didn’t see Gaius earlier. Or Guinevere for that matter, and the realisation brings a whole new barrage of questions with it.

Did they know? Did they try to free Merlin? Or are they as shocked and confused and _lost_ as Arthur feels?

His hand instinctively finds the hilt of his sword when he considers it. At least Gaius had to have known, perhaps even taught Merlin. Someone had to after all—or do warlocks not need anyone to teach them?

Arthur knows decidedly too little about the whole matter, and he quickens his steps until he reaches the stairs to the tower. He feels like everything is spiralling out of control and it’s a feeling he loathes with a burning passion. The fact that it’s not something he can tackle with a sword and a few knights only makes it worse.

Holy fuck, but the knights. His mind jumps to Gwaine, anguished and struggling in the courtyard. To Lancelot, who had always had a particularly close relationship with Merlin, so much so that in his less honourable moments, it drove Arthur into hidden fits of jealousy. He doesn’t want to consider how they’re going to react—if they’re even going to stay.

Gwaine, he knows, only came back for Merlin, only _stayed_ for Merlin. He’s probably going to blame Arthur, at least partly—he’s not sure yet if he might not just agree with him.

“Sire.”

It takes him a moment to realise that he has stopped at the bottom of the stairs, and he winces at the flat, tired voice coming from behind him.

Gaius looks like he has aged fifty years within the last week. He doesn’t meet Arthur’s eyes, his hands clasped behind his back and his head bowed. “What can I do for you?”

Arthur swallows and hesitates, not knowing where to start, what to ask—if he even should, if he wants to know, after all, but he quickly disregards it. He _needs_ to know, with a primal urge he can’t quite explain. Maybe he just needs to hear something that will allow him to be angry, give that deciding shove to make the betrayal burn hot and bright instead of cold and uncertain, something that’ll make him feel less numb and more righteous.

“Gaius, I’m—“ he bites off the ‘sorry’ that wants to slip out and draws a breath. “Can I talk to you? Please?”

There’s a beat of silence but then Gaius’ shoulders draw back and he meets his eyes. It’s not respect, not really, more silent defiance that at least answers the question if Gaius knew without Arthur needing to ask. It bothers him less than it probably should.

“Follow me. I’ve just been released from the dungeons, so I’d prefer to sit down and have a cup of tea,” Gaius says, brushing past him with more discourtesy than Arthur has ever seen on the man.

It’s not what bothers him right now though. “The dungeons? Why—“

Gaius’ mirthless laugh cuts him off, but he doesn’t offer an answer until the door to his workshop is closed behind them. “There were concerns that we would try to aid Merlin in an attempt to escape, so your uncle proposed it to avoid further trouble. Your father agreed,” Gaius says, his voice still flat as he walks over to the fireplace. “Of course, only because we spoke out—and not like Merlin would’ve let us. Stupid, insolent—“

A rattling breath shakes Gaius’ whole body and his shoulders slump.

Arthur quickly crosses the distance between them, scared that Gaius might just topple over from the sudden grief that seems to overwhelm him, and he carefully manoeuvres him into the chair that’s standing next to the hearth.

“We? And what do you mean, he wouldn’t let you? Gaius _please_ , what happened?”

Gaius sighs and runs a hand over his face, at last meeting Arthur’s eyes. The misery and guilt he finds there are impossible to bear, and he drops into the chair across from Gaius.

“Gwen and me. And he wouldn’t let us help him because he didn’t want to see us burn as well. He made us promise—said someone needed to look after you,” Gaius says, a sad smile tugging at his lips.

Arthur wants to argue that he doesn’t need looking after but stops himself. He’s just considered asking again for what happened, he’ll plead and beg if he has to, when the door flies open and Lancelot comes rushing inside, Guinevere directly behind him.

Both were obviously crying, and Arthur thinks that he usually would be more bothered to see the two of them together like this, but he can’t find it in himself to care right now. They stop short when they spot him next to Gaius, and he desperately searches for something to say, but he’s never had any less of an idea of what could possibly be the right words.

Guinevere gets over her shock the fastest and hurries over to Gaius, kneeling next to his chair. “Gaius,” is all she says, gripping one of his hands between hers, and Gaius offers her another weak smile.

“Can—what happened?” Lancelot says after a moment, his voice hoarse and tired like Arthur has never heard him before.

Gaius gives another deep sigh and Gwen gets up to prepare tea.

“Is it true?” Arthur asks before he can stop himself. “Is he—was he really a—“

“Yes,” Gaius says, and there’s no apology in his words, only pride. “He was born with magic, and was one of the strongest, if not the strongest warlock I’ve ever seen. Some even say he was the greatest warlock to ever walk the earth.”

Arthur stares at him, disbelief mixing with a sliver of irrational fear. “Merlin,” he says, not sure if Gaius is trying to pull his leg as he tries to align his clumsy manservant with ‘ _powerful’_ in his mind. He’s not successful.

“Yes,” Gaius says with a nod. “I’ve never seen anything like it before. He didn’t know a single spell when he arrived here and could do things others don’t achieve in a lifetime.”

“So, Agravaine really did see him,” he murmurs more to himself, only now realising that he has been doubting that part of the story.

A shadow passes over Gaius’ face, but it’s Guinevere who answers, her voice low but steady. “He was healing Hengroen. We tried to convince Agravaine to wait with the verdict until your return, but he went to your father.”

“He was—what? But why would he risk…” Arthur stammers, too hung up on the first part to consider anything else right now.

Guinevere is pouring the boiling water into four goblets and hands one to each of them before she looks at him with a small, sad smile. “Because it’s your favourite horse.”

It’s true enough, and he remembers complaining to Merlin about the leg injury that would’ve most likely been too severe for recovery. He shakes the thought and tries to focus on more important questions, but it’s hard. Healing Arthur’s favourite horse doesn’t sound particularly evil; it sounds exactly like something Merlin would do. “So you knew?” he asks, looking between Gaius and Guinevere. He completely fails at keeping the accusation out of his tone.

“I did,” Gaius says. “Gwen didn’t, until yesterday.”

“I knew as well,” Lancelot speaks up, his voice soft as he leans against the table, and he has a faraway look in his eyes. “He didn’t tell me, mind you. I heard him chanting a spell when I tried to kill the Griffin.”

“And you didn’t tell me?” It’s out before Arthur can stop himself, but it’s all getting a bit much. His mind is whirring and there’s still this indescribable _ache_ in his chest that flares and burns with every beat of his heart, and he’s not sure how many more betrayals he can take in one day.

“He saved my life, Arthur,” Lancelot says, his voice still soft but firm, and he meets Arthur’s eyes calmly. “And yours as well, more times than you’ll ever know.”

He glances at Gaius, who inclines his head. “I think not even Merlin knows exactly how many times, but it’s true, sire. He never meant you or Camelot any harm.”

It’s weirdly reminiscence of Merlin’s own words just before—

Arthur cuts the thought off, too painful and too fresh, still. He can feel a headache coming and rubs his temples. “Why would he—what was he even doing here? If he was really born with it, why not go to a kingdom where he’s not in so much danger?”

He’s still not sure if he can believe any of this but he wants to. Gods, how he wants to. At the same time, a part of him wishes that there were more reasons for anger, something to hate and resent Merlin for, to lessen the pressure of guilt and grief that’s gnawing at him.

“It was his destiny. His and yours. And well, the more practical reason was that his mother was concerned; he had difficulties controlling his magic when he came here and she hoped I could help him,” Gaius explains, his hands clenching around his goblet.

“So she sent him to Camelot? When he had problems controlling his magic?” Arthur asks, having difficulties wrapping his mind around that.

Gaius shrugs. “Hunith is my sister, and she trusted me to keep him safe. Mind you, his abilities went far beyond my knowledge, but he found a purpose, a reason for the powers he had, and eventually learnt to control them. Not that it made him any more careful.”

The last part is murmured with fond exasperation, and then Gaius seems to realise his own words and his lips press into a thin line. Silence settles over them, heavy and sombre.

Arthur wants to ask why Merlin never told him, but he probably knows the answer to that and isn’t sure if he wants to hear someone say it. Neither does he want to think about Hunith, about what she’s going to think about him when she learns that his father killed her son. Instead, he focuses on something else Gaius said. “What did you mean, his destiny? And mine?” 

Gaius shifts in his chair and seems to ponder what to say, but when he meets Arthur’s eyes, there’s once more only pride. “There is—was a prophecy, said to be older than mankind, of the Once and Future King who would unite the land of Albion and bring magic back to the land. But to achieve that, he’d need a powerful warlock at his side, to guide and protect him, and to build the kingdom with.”

Arthur is gaping, he knows he is, but—“And that’s supposed to be… Merlin and me?”

“Indeed,” Gaius answers calmly like that isn’t the wildest thing anyone has ever told Arthur. “You are but two sides of the same coin, your destinies entwined since long before you were born.” Here, he hesitates, and another bone-rattling sigh escapes him. “I do not know how his—how this recent development influences any of it. He was not supposed to—“

Gaius chokes on his words and Guinevere steps closer to him, squeezing his shoulder, but there are tears in her eyes as well.

Arthur doesn’t know what to think; his chest feels tight and he has difficulties in holding on to a single thought but for the question, was that the only reason Merlin stayed? He remembers more than one occasion where Merlin mentioned destiny; remembers how he was always a bit taken aback by the unwavering faith and belief Merlin seemed to have in him.

It’s much less surprising if it stemmed from some prophecy about destinies and Albion—about bringing magic back. And to some degree, it makes sense, doesn’t it? That Merlin would stick around to see it come to pass, to see his people no longer persecuted and burnt.

The more he hears, the less he feels like he knew the man who he considered his closest friend at all. It hurts so much more than he wants to admit.

“I—I think I need to go,” he presses out, suddenly desperate to be alone, to try and make sense of everything that happened over the last few hours, or maybe just drink himself into oblivion. He also doesn’t want anyone to see how his walls are crumbling one by one.

“Arthur—“ Guinevere calls, but he’s already halfway to the door and shakes his head without turning around.

“I just—I need time.”

“You were very dear to him,” Gaius says. “Never forget that.”

Arthur is not sure if he can believe that either.

* * *

The next weeks are some of the worst Arthur has ever had to live through. He still has to manage the kingdom as his father has returned to his previous, unresponsive state, and he throws himself into the work. He barely sleeps, and when he does his dreams are plagued with pictures of burning pyres and various other scenarios of Merlin dying. Only interrupted by scenes where Merlin reveals that he has never been his friend but an obligation, forced by the hand of destiny or whatever else nonsense.

Arthur tries not to think about it. Tries not to think about Merlin at all because it just leads to his throat closing up and his heart racing, makes his hands shake and causes him to lose focus he can’t afford to lose. He brushes off whoever tries to talk to him about _him_ , only to catch himself looking over his shoulder to make a comment, throw an insult or a joke, and every single time it knocks all the breath out of him.

He can’t look at his uncle without feeling a surge of anger, and the only time he allows himself any display of emotion is on the training field when he runs his knights through an even harsher regime than usual.

It’s the only thing that offers some twisted sense of relief; turning off his brain and simply letting the anger and betrayal lead his sword, going through the knights until none of them can stand any longer.

The only one still keen on fighting him is Gwaine, who meets him with a ferocious intensity that easily rivals Arthur’s own. It could be satisfying, to have someone who deals—or _not_ deals—with his grief the same way Arthur does, but whenever he looks at Gwaine, he can see the accusation and anger burning in his eyes.

He knows he should probably address it, but he’s still not sure what he’s supposed to think about Merlin, and would really rather not think of him at all. So he avoids meeting Gwaine’s eyes and takes the occasional defeat in training with as much grace as he can muster.

Of course, it has to come to a head eventually. It’s only a month after Merlin—disappeared, and Arthur is in his chambers, going over plans for the upcoming patrols while George is cleaning up.

It’s still uncomfortable and feels downright wrong, to have someone else in his room, but there’s no good explanation he could offer to _not_ have a servant. And unlike the other four servants he has hired and fired within the last few weeks, George at least doesn’t speak unless ordered to and leaves as soon as he’s done.

A knock on the door pulls him out of his thoughts and it takes him a moment to remember that he requested a knight come and pick up the new schedules.

Gwaine doesn’t wait for an invitation and steps into the room, staying by the door as soon as it closes and crossing his arms over his chest. His glare is ill-disguised, and it earns him a quiet huff from George.

It instantly catches Gwaine’s attention, gaze snapping to the servant, and his lips curl into a sneer. “Already replaced him, did you?”

“Gwaine—“

“No, I get it. After all, when it’s easy for you to condemn someone to death, why should it be any more complicated to give their job to someone else. What does it matter if they would’ve died for you? Did die—not for you, mind, but at least because of you.”

Arthur’s on his feet so quickly that his chair clatters to the floor, the sound too loud in the tense silence that follows. “Leave us,” he snarls at George, who doesn’t waste a second to do just that, slipping around Gwaine who merely scoffs.

“Gwaine, I didn’t—“ he stops and clenches his jaw at his inability to even say, much less believe what he wants to.

“You didn’t kill him?” Gwaine finishes mercilessly, his eyes boring into Arthur’s. “True, but you didn’t stop them either. You probably didn’t even know more than what your father and uncle accused him of, and that was all you needed to know to throw away years of friendship.”

“I tried!” he finally explodes, his hands clenching around the edge of the table to keep himself from reaching for his sword. “Don’t you think I tried? It’s not as if my father ever considered my opinion in these matters, and he made it very clear that not only would the guards stop me, but that he would consider me an accomplice if I did anything. He forced me to watch, for fuck’s sake!”

“He was your friend, and you let him die!” Gwaine hurls back at him. “You didn’t even _try_!” 

He draws a deep breath to keep himself from saying or doing things he would regret and meets Gwaine’s eyes coolly. “Careful, Gwaine. You’ve sworn your allegiance to me, to this kingdom, and that includes its laws.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, obvious in the way Gwaine’s eyes flash. He takes several steps forward until he can lean his hands on the table, close to invading Arthur’s personal space. “Yes, and I did it for _Merlin_. He was the only friend I had, Arthur, and it’s yours and your father’s fault he’s gone,” he says, his voice suddenly quiet and cold. The pure contempt that’s radiating off of him seems out of place on the cheery knight he used to know, and Arthur struggles to not flinch away from it all.

“He was my only friend as well,” he says before he can stop himself, the words catching in his throat, and he has to look away.

Gwaine’s answering laugh is mirthless and hoarse. “If that’s how you treat your friends, I’m sure I don’t want to count myself amongst them.”

His head snaps up and he stares at him, his heart racing in his chest. “What are you saying?”

But Gwaine doesn’t answer, just turns on his heel and walks out, the door clicking shut behind him with a silent finality.

He considers going after him, but he doesn’t know what he could possibly say. The problem is that a part of him doesn’t even disagree with everything Gwaine is accusing him of, he just hopes that he’ll cool down eventually.

When he arrives at training the next morning, Gwaine’s nowhere to be seen. He frowns, not only because he had hoped that another round of sparring might just ease some of the tension between them. He dismisses the thought and puts Gwaine’s absence down to another too-long night in the tavern when Leon approaches him with a sombre expression, Lancelot only a step behind him.

“Sir Leon, Sir Lancelot,” he greets, trying to gauge what the issue is, but they both look uncomfortable and maybe even apologetic, so it’s unlikely to be a matter of court or state.

“Sire,” Leon starts, and exchanges another glance with Lancelot before he sighs and straightens his shoulders. “Sir Gwaine left. We found his cloak and armour in his room, but all his personal belongings are gone.”

Arthur wants to feel relief, regardless of the guilt that accompanies that wish, but all he can feel is cold dread settling in his stomach.

Merlin is gone, and it seems that it is only getting worse from there.


	2. and if i'm dead to you, why are you at the wake?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from [Taylor Swift - my tears ricochet](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OWbDJFtHl3w)

There’s something pulling at his consciousness, but even without really knowing where, or _what_ exactly he is, he can tell that in this direction lies discomfort. Pain, maybe. He can tell he doesn’t want to follow, but the tug becomes harder to resist, the floating sensation receding as he slowly, oh so slowly, is able to form coherent thoughts again.

“Merlin.”

The voice sounds strangely familiar, though he can’t quite place it. Remembering takes more effort than it should—if he remembers correctly that is, he’s still not sure how all this is supposed to work. Whatever _this_ is.

“Merlin,” the voice repeats, more insistent, and the name stirs something within him that compels him to slowly blink his eyes open. A groan wrenches itself out of his throat and he turns his head, pressing his cheek against the cool ground he’s lying on.

“Easy there, you have quite the ordeal behind you,” the man says—and it is a man, Merlin thinks, memories of existence and _being_ slowly trickling back.

They’re followed by more recent ones, and he recoils violently from nothing. “I died—am I dead? Is this—whatever comes after?” he stammers out, finally forcing himself to look at his companion. His voice is rough and scratches his throat, and he coughs weakly. There’s still a lingering smell of fire, he thinks, and his stomach churns at the memory.

He smiles faintly when he recognises his father, not quite alive with his translucent, glowing form but probably the person he wants to see most right now, all things considered. “So, I _am_ dead, huh? Not sure why I’m surprised, really. Does this confusion get better over time?”

His father sighs and watches him for long moments before he shakes his head. “You’re not dead, Merlin.”

A scoff slips past his lips before he can stop it. “Of course I am. I was burnt at the stake, you are here, and we’re—“ for the first time, he takes in their surroundings and frowns when he finds himself in the Crystal Cave.

Unlike his father, he seems very much solid and _not_ glowing, and a sliver of dread wraps itself through his chest. He moves experimentally, but there’s no urgent pain, just a bone-deep weariness that makes him give up on his attempts quickly.

Letting his head drop back against the rough, very real ground, he stares up at his father. “But—how? It’s impossible, I remember…” he trails off, his mind shying away from confronting what happened; he’s not sure if the answer is going to be much better, but he needs one eventually.

“I’m sorry,” Balinor says, and sounds like he means it, which doesn’t help against his racing heart. “But Merlin, you’re no ordinary warlock. You are magic itself, son of the earth, the sky, and the sea. It takes more than Uther Pendragon’s blind hatred to eradicate what is made of the very fabric of this world.”

Merlin might just be physically sick. “So, what—I can’t die?” he asks, and it’s followed by a laugh that’s decidedly hysterical. He wants to flat-out deny the possibility, but it sounds exactly like the kind of shit destiny likes to throw at him.

“The prophecy—“

“I think that ship has sailed,” he interrupts harshly, a flicker of anger flaring into existence. “Even if it’s true and I can’t die, getting burnt once is more than enough. I don’t really fancy getting my head chopped off either.”

But even as he says it, his thoughts stray to Arthur, and the urge to protect easily overrides his anger. He grits his teeth in annoyance and has to look away from the compassion in his father’s eyes.

“It’s—well. It’s hard to explain, and I don’t envy you. But you’re not at the end of your journey yet, even though destiny is changing as we speak. What happened has not been foretold, and caused a lot of turmoil in certain magical circles,” Balinor explains, and there’s an amused smile tugging at his lips.

“So very sorry to hear that,” Merlin mutters dryly. “I mean—for now, it’s rather nice to, you know, _not_ be dead, but I’d like to know for how long this is… going to be a thing?” He runs a hand over his face, and even that little action costs him way too much strength.

“First, you need to rest. Your magic is settling—another thing that wasn’t supposed to happen for another few years, but enough of that for now. Sleep, you will feel better when you wake up.”

Merlin isn’t sure he believes it, but his father lays a cool hand onto his forehead, his eyes are already drooping, and coherent thought deserts him once more.

* * *

“Emrys.” The voice seems to float towards him, and Merlin refuses to open his eyes.

One thing about the name gets through the fog that seems to envelop him though. “Don’t tell me destiny is going to bother me in the afterlife as well?” he grumbles, wondering how it’s fair that not only does he feel heavy and wrung out, but there’s also someone set on annoying him.

“You are not dead, Emrys.”

Right, he had that conversation already, didn’t he? Though he thinks it’s rather justified to need a bit of time to wrap his mind around it, and he’d _really_ prefer to avoid it altogether.

“There goes my hope that it was only my imagination,” he mutters and, with a heavy sigh, opens his eyes. It’s easier than it was the last time, but when he tries to sit up, his head starts spinning and every bone in his body aches.

Gritting his teeth against the wave of nausea, he looks around himself. He’s still in the Crystal Cave but his father seems to be gone, replaced by who he recognises as Iseldir after sifting through his memories for longer than feels appropriate.

Iseldir smiles patiently and hands him a waterskin that he takes gratefully.

“Slowly,” Iseldir says when he gulps down half of its contents, and Merlin smiles sheepishly. “While your circumstances are certainly… unique, you still need to rest.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Merlin mutters more to himself, but then shakes his head and offers a smile in return. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude but it’s a lot to take in. How did you find me, anyway? I didn’t think this place is particularly frequented.”

Iseldir hesitates, his head tilted like he’s listening to something before getting back to his feet. “We need to leave, but I will explain. What happened could be felt by every magical being in the five kingdoms, and there is a high chance that certain people will be looking for you to discover the cause. Or your identity.”

Merlin winces and gratefully takes the offered hand to get up. His legs are shaking underneath him, and he doesn’t even have the energy to feel ashamed when Iseldir hands him a cloak, and wordlessly supports him on their way out of the cave.

If he was in a better condition, he might spare more of a thought about trusting someone he has met only a handful of times, but for now, he merely reminds himself of the status he has amongst the Druids and that they’re peaceful people. Not that he would have the energy to put up any sort of resistance if his life depended on it.

“Our camp is not far from here, and you are welcome to stay with us for as long as you need, my lord,” Iseldir says quietly when they exit the cave.

“Please, call me Merlin,” he says, but he doesn’t hold very much hope. It’s not like he has never asked before, and there’s a voice in his mind telling him that it might not be the best idea to keep going by his old name. He shoves it away for later consideration, all thoughts on Camelot too hard to bear right now.

True to Iseldir’s words, they don’t walk far, merely a few hundred feet out of the Valley of the Fallen Kings, but Merlin is barely able to keep his eyes open when they arrive in the camp, much less take in his surroundings.

“You need to eat something before you sleep again,” Iseldir says when he leads him into one of the tents and Merlin drops unceremoniously onto a bedroll. He wants nothing more than to close his eyes and sleep, but his stomach agrees with Iseldir, and he forces himself to stay in a sitting position.

Another man enters the tent shortly after, handing him a bowl of stew after bowing to him, and it’s a testament to Merlin’s exhaustion that he only just manages a croaked ‘Thank You.’

Still, the food does him a world of good, and he feels a little—well, more _alive_ when he sets the empty bowl down and curls up on his side to sleep.

* * *

Several days go on like this, or maybe it’s weeks—Merlin seriously can’t tell. He sleeps, wakes up to eat and drink, takes note of healing poultices the Druids leave for him, and goes back to sleep. He never dreams, and only occasionally catches sight of other people, and he would be lying if he claimed to not be glad for the lack of time to think about anything.

Of course, he knows that he can’t avoid reality forever, and when his strength starts returning, and the intervals of sleep become shorter, he eventually resigns himself to confronting at least some of his circumstances.

Not the apparent immortality though. He’s going to stay blissfully ignorant of that one as much as he can. After all, there are much more important things to decide, or that’s what he tries to tell himself.

Camelot, for starters. Or well, Arthur, in particular.

One thing he knows with bone-deep certainty is that he can’t go back, wouldn’t even if it wasn’t for Uther. Alive as he may be, he still has vivid memories of cold iron and being bound to the stake, of flames licking at his feet and of unbearable pain. Most of all though, he remembers the horrified expression on Arthur’s face, the way he was just standing there, staring at Merlin as if he had never seen him before.

He can’t go back, couldn’t stand to ever see that expression directed at him again. He can’t leave everyone he loves without protection from Morgana, and destiny may force his hand, but nowhere did it require him to actually _live_ in Camelot. There has to be some way to keep an eye on Camelot and take care of threats without actually confronting anyone.

The Druids should know how to, and he can feel his magic getting stronger with each passing day, easily outweighing whatever he was used to. His father had said his magic was ‘settling,’ and Merlin can taste it, can feel it dancing over his fingertips and underneath his skin.

Which is another revelation, another fact he knows with unwavering certainty—he’s not going to hide any longer. Not only because he probably couldn’t without resigning himself to changing his appearance constantly, but because he doesn’t want to.

In the end, it didn’t do him any good. Burnt for healing a horse, of all things, and no matter what Gwen and Gaius told him in the few hours they were all down in the dungeons, Merlin’s certain that Arthur wouldn’t have challenged Uther’s decision if he had been there.

He’s going to stay away from Camelot and make sure nobody learns about his survival, but he’s not going back to pretending he’s some fool and let himself be pushed around by low-level bandits out of fear of discovery. Not with the power to escape any means of capture at his fingertips, not with having nothing left to lose anyway.

The decision settles comfortably around his shoulders, though he grimaces at the idea of leaving Gaius and his friends in the belief that he’s dead. It would be too dangerous though, he knows. It’s a miracle that the only consequence for Gaius and Gwen was to be locked in the dungeons to prevent them from helping him escape, and expecting any of them to keep his continued existence a secret is more than he can possibly ask for.

And Arthur—well. To Arthur, it’s probably more of a consolation to think him dead, anyway.

His heart aches at the thought, memories of his last coherent thoughts before the flames engulfed him rising to the surface, of _‘I love him. I_ love _him and he hates me,’_ of a blank mask and terrified eyes. Of Arthur turning away before Merlin even lost conscience.

He could’ve really done without that particular realisation before he died, and he pushes the memories down through sheer force of will.

Thankfully, Iseldir enters the tent just then and smiles softly when he sees Merlin sitting up. “I take it you’re feeling better?”

“Thanks to you, I do,” he answers and inclines his head in gratitude. He did have some time to consider Iseldir’s words from the cave, and he’s more grateful than he can express that the Druids were the ones who found him. Gods help him if it had been Morgana and Morgause.

Iseldir settles down on the floor across from him and hands him another bowl of food. “Did you have time to consider what you’re going to do now?” he asks, and at Merlin’s hesitant expression, adds, “My words still stand—you are welcome to stay with us for however long you want to.”

A rush of warmth surges through him and he smiles. “I’d like that. I can’t return to Camelot, and there are also many things I have yet to learn.”

Iseldir looks doubtful, and Merlin laughs with a shake of his head. “I know that you all look up to me, and I’ll admit that destiny seems set on singling me out even among my own kind. But power alone only goes so far, and I’ve never had the chance to really stretch my abilities within Camelot’s walls. And while I did survive, I lost all my belongings, including the few books on magic I had. If you’ll allow me, I would love to learn from you.”

“We would be honoured,” Iseldir says, but there’s a fond gleam in his eyes that gives Merlin hope that he might just be on a path to less worship and more companionship. “May I ask what kind of knowledge you’re searching for?”

Merlin tilts his head and thinks while he chews on his food. “I’d like to learn more about prophecies, for one. I feel like every time someone told or showed me glimpses of the future, my attempts to prevent it were what made it come to pass. Then there’s healing—or really, any spells that aren’t used for combat—“

“Emrys,” Iseldir interrupts him, though he still looks incredibly fond. Merlin raises a brow and gestures for him to continue. “We certainly can teach you more about prophecies, about theoretical knowledge, and even some spells if that is what you wish, but—you’re no ordinary warlock.”

“So I’ve heard,” he murmurs to himself, and at Iseldir’s fondly exasperated look, smiles sheepishly. “I’m sorry, please go on.”

“Of course, there’s little theory on your abilities but I assume that focusing on spells alone would more likely restrict than enable you.”

He frowns, trying to make sense of it but coming up remarkably blank. “How do you mean?”

“Well,” Iseldir starts, looking at him thoughtfully. “Usually, sorcerers use spells and enchantments to channel their magic and strengthen it. Only a few can cast non-verbally, and nearly none are able to use their magic instinctively, at least not outside of accidents. I’d assume that is not the same for you?”

“Not really. Before I came to Camelot, I didn’t know any spells and my magic reacted mostly on its own. When I was emotional, for example, or the situation dire—though that caused a lot of problems when I was a child because I couldn’t really control it,” he muses, casting his mind back to the many incidents in Ealdor that made his mother send him to Camelot in the first place. “But I generally just had to think what I wanted it to do and it… happened.”

Iseldir nods as if he expected that answer. He probably did. “I assumed as much. Learning spells did allow you to take control of your powers, and I don’t mean to say that continuing to learn them would be useless or harmful. But if you try to _only_ work with spells, you’re going to restrict yourself. You need to find a balance between control, and learning how to direct your magic by itself to make it do your bidding—you need to learn how to do what you did instinctively when you were emotional. Though the language of the Old Religion would probably help you direct your magic in a way spells do for others, at least at first.”

Now that he thinks back on it, he can see the truth in it. His magic has always been more powerful, has come more easily when he didn’t try to force it into something; Nimueh, slowing down time, even his Dragonlord-powers.

Realising that he has been silent for some time, he focuses back on Iseldir. “How do I do that?”

Iseldir spreads his hands on the floor and smiles again. “That, I cannot tell you, Emrys. But I suspect that with fully coming into your power, it will come easier to you.”

Merlin nods slowly, chewing on his bottom lip, which draws a quiet laugh out of Iseldir.

“Don’t be afraid of yourself. You might be magic, but you managed to hide in the den of the lion for many years. If that doesn’t speak of control, I do not know what does.”

It’s a nice way to say, ‘you’re not a child anymore,’ and even if Merlin wants to argue that he was found out eventually, he knows that it was only due to his carelessness and not a lack of control.

He smiles. “Thank you, Iseldir. I can’t tell you how much this means. Though I hope that you’re still willing to teach me some of the things you know. Of course, I will help around the camp in whatever way I can.”

“You’re welcome, and I’m sure the Elders will be happy to share their knowledge with you. As am I.”

All things considered, this is probably the best possible outcome that could follow being executed, Merlin thinks as Iseldir leaves the tent shortly after.

Recovering as he might be, the conversation did still tire him out, and he soon falls back into sleep, his magic humming underneath his skin.

* * *

Over the next few days, the stretches of time he’s able to stay awake for are steadily growing longer, and he’s glad that Iseldir keeps visiting him.

Though when Iseldir tells him that he’s been in the camp for a month, he can do nothing but stare in shock. Iseldir outright laughs at him. “Emrys, you might be immortal, but that doesn’t mean that you’re just going to get back up again. At least, not with something as… destructive as what happened to you,” he says, and his voice softens remarkably towards the end.

It’s not pity and Merlin is grateful for that, but he still winces at the mention of what happened, and why he’s still here despite that.

“Right, okay. Over a month though? That’s a bit excessive,” he grumbles, anything to distract himself from the whole Immortality-issue on itself.

If Iseldir notices, he doesn’t call him out on it. “You seem to be growing stronger the last few days,” he says instead, and Merlin smiles in return.

“I am. I’m actually getting restless—do you think I could join you for dinner tonight?”

“Of course,” Iseldir says with a nod. “Though I’m going to warn you that the children, in particular, have been waiting to meet you, so you should probably prepare yourself for a lot of attention.” 

Merlin bites back the sigh and merely smiles. He owes a lot to all of them, he knows, and to some degree, he also understands better now, after many conversations with Iseldir about the kind of life they live, how much hope people are drawing from his existence.

On an abstract level, he has known this since he heard of the prophecy, of course, but somehow it’s become more tangible. Up until now, he’d mostly thought it was Arthur and Arthur alone who was the hope for all of Albion, that Merlin was merely supposed to protect him long enough to get there, but he’s slowly coming to realise that, at least for the Druids, it’s nearly the other way around.

It’s a humbling thought, and he hasn’t figured out yet what he’s supposed to do with that realisation. He keeps the part of himself that insists their trust might be sorely misplaced firmly to himself; they wouldn’t believe him, and there’s no use in disappointing them before he’s tried.

“I’ll be fine,” he says, putting as much reassurance into the words as he can muster. “There’s one thing I’d like to do before though.”

Iseldir seems to sense his hesitance and waits patiently until he has worked through his reluctance. “I need to… I have to check on how things are going in Camelot.” He doesn’t _want_ to, not really. But he also does, deep down, and tells himself that there isn’t really a choice. “You said that there’s a way—scrying, right?”

“Yes, there are different methods. You already used the crystals in the Crystal Cave once, did you not?” Iseldir asks, and Merlin barely bites back a wince at the memory, but he nods.

“I couldn’t control what they showed me though. Maybe I can now, I’m not sure. But I have to try.”

His only answer is a slight bow of the head, and then Iseldir slips out of the tent. As soon as he’s gone, Merlin’s shoulders slump. He doesn’t want to do this, but try as he might, he can’t bring himself to ignore the urge to protect Arthur and his friends. He had tried over the last few days, questioning his decision over and over, contemplating leaving the land of Camelot and everyone in it as far behind himself as he could.

But he can’t. Whenever he tries to envision it, his chest clenches painfully, images of Arthur or his friends hurt, real and imaginary flooding his mind, and he thinks he might just go insane if he tries to turn his back on all of them.

Neither can he return though, maybe even less than he can bring himself to vanish for good.

Which leaves him with this, and he forces a smile on his face when Iseldir returns with a wrapped package in his hand.

“As you’ve used crystals before, I thought this would work best. When you look into it, make sure to have a clear intent in mind, and focus on the time and place you want to see. But as tempting as it might seem to glimpse into the future, be aware that nothing is ever set in stone, and sometimes knowing of one of a hundred possibilities is the only thing that makes it come to pass,” Iseldir says, his eyes intent on Merlin’s face.

Merlin quickly shakes his head. “No, I don’t want to know the future. Whenever I did, it only made matters worse.”

“You are wiser than you think yourself to be,” Iseldir says with a smile, and hands him the cloth-covered crystal. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Iseldir hovers at the exit for a moment, looking back at Merlin with poorly concealed worry, and a wave of fondness washes through him. “Thank you,” he says softly, knowing that it’s concern for him more than fear that he’d abuse the power.

“I hope you’ll find everything well,” Iseldir says, and then he’s gone, leaving Merlin to sit with his thoughts.

After another minute of hesitation, he scoffs at himself and draws his shoulders back. He has gone through far worse things than this, and he can feel his magic already bubbling to the surface, eager to do his bidding. He will be _fine_.

Drawing another deep breath, he focuses on what he needs to see—Arthur, and what he’s doing right now. With that thought in mind, he pulls back the rough fabric and looks down into the crystal.

At first, images flicker too quickly for him to make out anything, but he lets his magic flow out of him and repeats Arthur’s name within his mind until the images slow down and settle on Camelot.

The castle looks as magnificent as it always does, but he pushes forward, unwilling to linger on the feelings it tries to bring up within him. There are the lower town and the courtyard, and finally the scenery changes to the council chamber.

He recognises the faces of most of the knights and the advisors, and finally, he focuses on the throne at the head of the table.

Seeing Arthur knocks all the breath out of him, and with a strangled noise, he throws the crystal away from him, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes.

Damn it, but he’s not going to cry, he’s _not_. Drawing shaking breath after shaking breath, he forces himself to calm down until he can breathe again and buries every single emotion that he has associated with Arthur for so long under another layer of detachment.

When he has convinced himself that one day, he might actually believe it, he picks the crystal up once more. This time, he finds the scene he’s looking for faster and grits his teeth against another wave of longing and anguish and betrayal.

It seems to be a normal council session, and with another push of his magic, he gets the actual sound of the voices as well. Leon is talking about patrols and reports on bandits, but there’s nothing particularly threatening if the calm atmosphere is anything to go by.

Letting his eyes wander around the table, he notes that Gwaine is absent, but he doesn’t give it much thought. To Leon’s right, Gaius is sitting, but while his eyes are fixed on Leon, he doesn’t seem to be listening. In fact, he looks much older and frailer than Merlin has ever seen him.

He doesn’t push the worry away, but moves on, only to snarl with a sudden burst of anger when he spots Agravaine, all self-satisfied smile and feigned interest. For a moment, it’s rushing through him so hot and bright that he lets the control of his magic slip, his thoughts going back to the moment six weeks ago when Agravaine dragged him into the throne room and went on to do his mockery of a trial.

He remembers Gaius storming in, first trying to shield him and then demanding that they wait for Arthur to return—remembers Agravaine giving the orders to fetch Uther, who left his chambers for the first time in weeks just to make sure Merlin would be executed as quickly as possible.

The pictures in the crystal are changing now, but he barely notices, too caught up in the phantom sensation of burning iron around his wrists and neck, the feeling of being hollowed out, nothing more than a physical body, of barely being able to convince Gaius and Gwen to not do anything stupid.

The scenery changes again, to the evening of the same day—they certainly didn’t waste any time. Watching himself getting bound to the stake isn’t as strange as it should be, and his eyes automatically find Arthur. He can hear Uther say, _‘He used magic on one of the horses, the one you usually ride. Obviously, an attempt to tamper with it,’_ and it makes him recoil so violently that he hits his head against the wooden stilt in his back.

He takes a moment to mourn that he didn’t knock Agravaine out the second he was caught in the stables. The outcome—leaving Camelot—would’ve been the same for him, but at least he would’ve had the satisfaction of seeing the slimy idiot crumble and leave on his own terms. At the very least he should’ve tried to flee before they put the iron on him, and he doesn’t have a good explanation for why he didn’t.

In the end, it doesn’t really matter, and he’s mostly angry at himself for losing control. At least it worked in general, and even though seeing Arthur feels like getting punched repeatedly, he can probably get away with keeping a watch on the castle and its surroundings.

After all, if he sees Arthur in acute danger, it’s most likely too late anyway.

Which, come to think of it—using the crystal to spy on others might prove more useful than he had considered.

But first, he must get the memory of Uther telling Arthur that he attempted to tamper with Hengroen out of his head. He rewraps the crystal carefully and shifts through the clothes Iseldir left for him. They’re not much different from what he used to wear, simple breaches and tunics, and a pair of boots.

Instead of a jacket, there’s a long, charcoal-grey cloak though, and he decides that he likes the change. Freshly washed and dressed, he feels decidedly more human and slips out of the tent.

The camp is small, not more than twenty tents scattered across the clearing, but it’s humming with quiet activity. Children of various ages are running around while the adults are all busy with preparing food, collecting firewood, or organising supplies.

Thin rays of sunlight are filtering through the trees where he stands, and he tips his head back, relishing the first real warmth of the year and the peaceful atmosphere around him. For a moment, he nearly believes that he could be content here, with the magic of nature wrapping around him and the laughter of children in his ears.

He sighs quietly to himself and blinks his eyes open, only to find a few of the younger children surrounding him with curiosity and awe on their faces. “Are you really Emrys?” a small boy with red hair asks, and to his surprise, the name doesn’t feel as foreign and wrong as it used to.

A month with Iseldir insisting on calling him that probably does that.

Smiling down at them, he nods. “I am, and what are your names?”

What follows is a loud, confusing round of introductions, and the request for him to show them some magic. He conjures a few butterflies of various colours and lets them dance around the children, warmth blossoming in his chest at their obvious delight, but he’s still glad when Iseldir appears behind him and fondly scolds the kids to leave him some room to breathe.

“Come, the Elders want to meet you,” he says, and then follows within Merlin’s mind with, _‘Did you find what you were seeking?’_

Merlin masks a wince at the memory and nods. _‘I did, and all seems well, considering the circumstances. Though I did hear some things I could’ve done without.’_

Iseldir stops and raises a brow at him. _‘Hear? Scrying usually only allows one to see.’_

He shrugs _. ‘Well, I could’ve done without council reports and speeches from Uther Pendragon, so I’m not sure if I didn’t get the short end of the stick, after all.’_

‘ _Well_ ,’ Iseldir echoes and Merlin can practically feel his amusement. _‘I’m sure you’ll figure out how to filter what you need.’_

 _‘May I keep the crystal for the time being?’_ he asks, intent on changing the subject. _‘All in all, it did work as I needed it to. I just—lost focus, at one point.’_

_‘It’s for you, Emrys.’_

It’s a simple statement, without any reverence or expectation tugged into it, and he once again feels fondness and gratitude well up within him, not bothering to mask the emotion from their mind link.

“Here we are,” Iseldir says, holding open the flap to a tent at the edge of the camp and gesturing for him to step inside.

It’s larger than the one Merlin has spent the last few weeks in, and it’s cosy, with blankets and pillows on the floor, stacks of books towering in the corners, and coloured lights floating underneath the ceiling. The smell of herbs and potions reminds him of Gaius, and he immediately feels welcome and safe, despite being confronted with a handful of curious faces.

The introductions are thankfully less confusing than it was with the children, though Merlin still fears he’s going to mix up the names.

An old woman who introduces herself as Ambika presses a goblet of tea into his hand and he settles down, leaning against a wooden beam in his back.

“Thank you for taking me in and caring for me. I can’t tell you how glad I am that it was you who found me,” he says, bowing his head in gratitude.

“It is our honour, Emrys,” an old man named Urias, who is sitting across from Merlin, says but his solemn expression quickly gives way to a soft smile that transforms his wrinkled face into one of kindness. “We will always welcome those in need.”

It reminds him of Morgana and the short time she spent with the Druids, and there’s a sudden pang in his chest at the memory.

Ambika seems to notice his shift in mood as she lightly taps his hand that’s clenching around his goblet. “You wish to learn from us?” she asks, her voice curious, and an answering murmur runs through the small group.

He can’t help the amused smile that’s stretching over his face and echoes their words. “I would be honoured. There are still so many things I don’t know and didn’t have the chance to learn yet.” He shrugs a little self-deprecatingly. “Destiny may have given me a role to play, but it didn’t deliver a guide alongside, and the advice of over-sized lizards is not always the best.”

“Destiny is not set in stone, Emrys,” Medea, the oldest woman of the group says quietly, her voice deep and gravelly. “It is ever-changing and fluid, and it is our choices that determine our future. Prophecies may state what is likely to pass, but there is little to nothing that is inevitable—only those futures most probable, or results of events that are difficult, maybe impossible, to reverse from a certain point onwards.”

Not more than three sentences, but it’s enough to tip Merlin’s whole worldview on its axis. “But Kilgharrah always said…” he mutters, breaking off again only to marvel at how straight-forward Medea actually was. Another thing he has not encountered much whenever someone told him about that particular topic, but exactly what he needed to hear. Preferably a few years ago.

“Dragons, wise as they may be, are beings that operate differently. The fact that they can see many possible futures and their probability, but not relate to human-experience, leads them to believe less in the free will of humans than is… realistic,” Urias says, and it makes so much sense that Merlin can’t even find it in himself to be mad at Kilgharrah. “Add to this their own interests and circumstances, and you get advice as subjective as everyone else’s.”

“So… Morgana didn’t have to go down the path she did?” he asks, and his voice sounds weak even to himself, but he can’t bring himself to care. It’s a question that has been bothering him for so very long and for the first time, he might just get an actual answer.

There’s another round of murmurs at the name, and it’s Iseldir who speaks. “Some might say that it always was her destiny to become your counterpart, and nobody can prove that it wasn’t, as the inciting incidents to her future have already passed. But it would implicate that some people are born to do harm, to eventually, inevitably become evil, and we don’t think that is true.”

“Take your own destiny, for example,” Ambika goes on when he stays silent. “What has happened to you has not been foretold, and the prophecies have been changing—you are at a turning point. For many, what you have suffered under Uther Pendragon might be enough to turn them against Camelot, and nothing but yourself is stopping you from doing that.”

“I would never—I believe that it will be better, once—“ he breaks off when he spots her smile.

“But you could,” she repeats patiently. “And the prophecies _are_ changing, the chances of alternative endings to your and Arthur Pendragon’s story are shifting. Only the future will show which path you will take.”

He nods slowly, trying to take it all in. One thing still bothers him though. “So, I could have prevented Morgana turning down her path if I had helped her.”

“Maybe,” Medea says, her eyes intent on him. “Or maybe you would’ve handed her the key to destroying you before you could stand between her and her goals. There is no easy equation of cause and reaction, Emrys, and Morgana Pendragon had many things that led to the darkening of her heart.”

The idea of Morgana knowing about his true identity with the recent events is a chilling one, and he doesn’t manage to hide his grimace at the thought. The others stay silent as he mulls over everything that was said, his mind whirring with all the new information.

The knowledge that his choices matter is as comforting as it is terrifying if he’s honest with himself. Knowing that he might prevent some of the things he has seen or was told gives him hope; knowing that he can still fuck it up, on the other hand…

“Wait,” he says, a thought suddenly occurring to him that makes the dull ache in his chest pulse painfully. “Does this mean that there’s a chance, with Arthur finding out about my magic—that our destiny is, I don’t know, over?”

No matter how much he knows that Arthur must hate him now, it had never occurred to him that the consequences could be that drastic.

He’s met with fond expressions from all of them though.

“While there are many obstacles in your future, Emrys, this is one of the least likely. A half cannot truly hate that which makes it whole,” Medea says, and well, Merlin might not be convinced of that, but at least she deems it unlikely that he fucked up any chance of a united Albion.

It has to be enough for now.

“Come, we should head out for dinner,” Iseldir says quietly, obviously seeing that Merlin needs time to process everything that has been said.

He offers him a grateful smile but takes a moment to thank all of them for their time and knowledge. Despite his whirring thoughts, it was probably the most helpful conversation he’s ever had on the topic.

The sun has already disappeared behind the top of the trees and there are fires burning around the camp, the flames throwing long shadows over the tents and dancing to the low chatter. Merlin can feel the humming of wards around the perimeter and settles down with quiet thanks when Iseldir gestures for him.

He can feel people watching him but is too absorbed in his thoughts to pay it much mind. There’s a pressure building in his chest, the more it sinks in how this is now his life—not that he feels unwelcome or uncomfortable, but it was easier to ignore the loss of what was his home for so many years while he was scooped up and mostly asleep.

All the talk of destiny and choices, as well as the families around him, really drive it home how much he has lost. He’s not even sure if he should let his mother know he’s still alive, he realises as he watches the children with their parents, and it sends another pang through his chest.

Before he knows it, the camp has grown quiet and the fires are dying down, only a few adults still sitting and talking quietly.

“Is there a clearing somewhere close?” he asks Iseldir, suddenly desperate to see at least one familiar face. And really, he should probably talk to Kilgharrah anyway—he must know that Merlin’s still alive, but god only knows what else the dragon is aware of.

If Iseldir is surprised by his request after hours of silence, he doesn’t let it show, and simply points him in the direction of a deer path.

Merlin nods his thanks and gets to his feet, stretching to get the crick out of his back and conjuring a ball of light to see in the dark. It still feels weird to do magic so openly, but he’s determined to make as much use of his newfound circumstances as he can.

The path is easy enough to find and he doesn’t have to walk longer than ten, fifteen minutes until he finds a large clearing that opens up towards a steep fall at the other end. For a moment, he soaks in the sight of the clear night sky, the silence around him, and it’s nearly enough to delude himself into believing that nothing has changed.

But everything has and he shakes himself out of the treacherous feeling. The sooner he buries all that nostalgia, the better for his sanity, and with that thought in mind, he tips his head back and calls for Kilgharrah.

He leans against one of the trees and waits, and even when Kilgharrah touches down in front of him with a bow of his head, he doesn’t move.

The familiar, “young warlock,” has him stumbling forward though. There’s a sudden lump lodged firmly in his throat, and his eyes are burning.

“I’m glad to see you well,” Kilgharrah says when Merlin comes to a stop only a few feet away. “Am I correct to assume that the Druids found you?”

Merlin can only nod, not trusting himself to speak, and he _hates_ this, hates that everything seems to be crashing down on him as if the whole world is pressing onto his shoulders.

“I admit I was worried, this time was more severe than the other—“

“What?” Merlin interrupts, his voice cracking but the sudden anger flares too brightly for him to care. “What do you mean, the other—“ He groans, cutting himself off, only to start anew with a glare at the infuriating beast. “ _Of course_ , you knew. I should’ve guessed. And it happened before—really, that’s just great, fantastic, why tell Merlin—“

“The other times weren’t as destructive, young warlock,” Kilgharrah says softly, and any other time Merlin would’ve felt amazed at the compassion in his voice, but he’s unable to focus on anything but the anger coursing through his veins.

“As if this whole mess of destiny wasn’t enough already,” he breathes, pressing his knuckles against his eyes until there are stars dancing in his vision.

A rumble reverberates through the clearing. “The prophecies are changing—“

 _“I don’t care_!” Merlin shouts, fury overtaking everything else. “I don’t care, I don’t—how can anyone expect me to—more and more, every single time! I keep sacrificing and losing people and keep myself hidden, I do everything, and it’s still not enough, never enough. I lost _everything_ , and still—“

He stumbles to his knees and is faintly aware of his body shaking with sobs as he wraps his arms around himself. “Arthur hates me, most of my friends probably hate me as well, and still I can’t help but want to protect them. They _hate_ me, and I can’t even tell my mother I’m still alive, or Gaius, I just…”

The words are tumbling out of him on their own accord, unheeding of his difficulty to draw a single breath, and he distantly thinks that it’s the first time he’s allowed himself to cry since he woke up in the Crystal Cave.

“A half cannot—“

“ _Don’t_!” he snarls, then clenches his eyes shut and shakes his head. “Please, don’t, Kilgharrah,” he adds softly. “I saw his face and—“ he breaks off again, the tears clogging his throat, and he simply bows his head in defeat.

Warm breath is ghosting over him and he tiredly leans his head against Kilgharrah’s snout, uncaring of how weak he may appear, or how strange this whole situation is.

“It will get better, young warlock. You will see,” Kilgharrah says, and Merlin doesn’t believe him, but he stays where he is and feels a sliver of gratitude that he has at least one friend left in the world. Infuriating as he may be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a bit of a sucker for world-building to be honest, and the show is just vague enough on a lot of things concerning destiny and Merlin's magic, that I'm twisting it to fit my needs. I hope it makes sense. ❤️


	3. cursing your name, wishing you stayed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from [Taylor Swift - my tears ricochet](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OWbDJFtHl3w) ❤️

Time passes strangely for Arthur. Days seem to blur together, rushing past him while simultaneously feeling like he’s struggling knee-deep through mud without a destination to fix his eyes on.

He still catches himself turning around to make a quip at Merlin, scanning a room to share a moment of silent amusement, or expecting increasingly ridiculous wake-up calls and commentary about advisors and nobles. He has gotten good at snapping his jaw shut silently, at clenching his hands into fists until his nails print crescents into his palms where nobody can see.

Sometimes, he still expects Merlin to jump out from behind an alcove and declare that it was all a great joke, an excuse like the ones Gaius used to come up with about him disappearing into taverns for days on end.

The subsequent blow of realisation doesn't get less staggering, but it mostly adds to the rage that's constantly simmering underneath his skin these days.

At first, he tried to be angry with Merlin. For lying to him, for making Arthur trust and like and _need_ him. For using magic in the first place, for maybe seeing Arthur only as a means to an end of some destiny; he tries to convince himself with every fibre of his being that it’s better this way, that it hurts less than Merlin turning on him—that magic corrupts everyone eventually.

It should’ve been easy, so shortly after witnessing Morgana betraying them all, but it’s not. Whenever he tries to picture it, he remembers Merlin crying over Unicorns and rabbits alike, remembers him helping everyone, always having that particular, unwavering loyalty and a word of wisdom when needed. Remembers teasing and fond looks and the uncanny ability to get Arthur out of whatever foul mood he was in—always being exactly what Arthur needed him to be.

There are enough other targets for his quiet anger though. Agravaine for bringing the matter to his father. His father for leaving Arthur to rule the kingdom but making an exception to see Merlin executed. Gaius for telling him that Merlin was by Arthur’s side because someone told him to. Gwaine for leaving, Lancelot and Guinevere for their grieving expressions and worried glances, the knights for not being competent enough to deal with Arthur’s anger.

Himself for letting it all happen; for letting someone so close that their absence is tearing him apart from the inside out.

He knows that he’s being ridiculous and unfair beyond measure, but he can’t stop himself.

Some days it’s so bad that he wants to scream and shout and hack away at a whole army to channel it all somewhere. But he’s afraid of where that would leave him, of what’s going to happen should the anger ever ebb away, the only source of energy he seems to have left.

Other days, he just wants to escape the castle that feels colder, the land that feels darker, all the places where every nook and corner holds memories that are now tinged with doubts and uncertainties.

But there’s still a kingdom he’s held responsible for and he throws himself into the work with everything he has. Anything to not think, to maybe, just _maybe_ be exhausted enough at the end of the day to not flinch at every touch from whatever servant has lasted more than a few days under Arthur’s temper. To not dream of fire and the smell of burning flesh and gut-wrenching screams for one bloody night.

It’s not very successful, for the most part, but there’s nobody to call him out on it. The only person who has always been able to see through all the masks Arthur wraps around himself was Merlin; the only one to poke and prod until Arthur broke and talked about what’s bothering him. To just be there and listen, let Arthur rant and shout and throw things, only to pick up the pieces when he had tired himself out eventually.

But Merlin’s not here anymore, and few would dare to try now. Guinevere did, a few times in the first few weeks, but Arthur can’t bring himself to talk to her any more than he can to anyone else.

There’s too much pain in her eyes, reminding him of his own; too much compassion he doesn’t deserve, too much danger that she’s going to bring up Merlin and break the frail hold Arthur has on himself.

He doesn’t even understand why it’s hit him this badly and it only serves to fuel his anger further—or maybe he does, though he’s not sure which one is worse.

Of course, he should’ve known that not everyone would get the hint to leave him alone. The first one to approach him is Leon.

To their credit, they’ve waited nearly two months after Gwaine left, and a part of him wonders if that is because they believe that Arthur _made_ him leave. He can’t really find it within himself to care either way.

“Sire,” Leon says one day after training, and the inflection of his voice is enough for Arthur’s jaw to clench. “I just—you know, it is alright to… to mourn him, even if he betrayed you.”

Arthur swallows down the impulse to snap at him and gives a jerky nod. He wishes that was his only problem. “Thank you, Sir Leon. That will be all.”

Lancelot is the next, a few days later, but Arthur wants to talk to him even less. Just another person who wasn’t honest with him—who he can’t be angry with despite the lies, because he understands. His father would probably burn him as well if he knew.

“You know that Merlin—“ Lancelot starts, but the name is already enough to send another wave of pain and anger and confusion through him, and he glares with as much authority as he can muster.

“Don’t!” he hisses, his voice so sharp and cold that he surprises himself, and he storms out of the armoury before Lancelot, or anyone else, can say another word.

For a few days, they leave him in peace. He registers that Lancelot and Guinevere are spending more time together, and if their sad, wistful expressions are anything to go by, he can guess the topic of their conversations.

A part of him thinks that it’s only to be expected—turning away from Arthur seems to be a common occurrence in Camelot, and his mind bitterly provides him with several memories of his father telling him that a king does not have friends.

A much bigger part can’t even find it in himself to care anymore; it all seems inconsequential, and no matter how much he tries to force himself to feel anything other than anger and numbness, it seldom works.

He should have expected that out of everyone, Guinevere wouldn’t let him get away so easily. She finds him in his chambers a week after he brushed Lancelot off, and he can see in the set of her jaw that she won’t be swayed.

Getting up from behind his desk, he walks around it and crosses his arms over his chest. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he says, and her shoulders tense slightly.

She doesn’t back down. “Arthur, you have to. This isn’t healthy for you.”

He scoffs in response and digs his nails into his arms. “What’s not healthy for me is being betrayed by everyone I care about. It’s watching my father wither away, or having to bother with people who don’t respect my obvious wishes.”

It comes out much sharper than he intended, and there’s a brief flare of guilt at her answering flinch.

“He didn’t betray you, Arthur, and I know that you know that,” she says softly, taking a step towards him.

“Do I though?” he mutters, looking away from her. “It’s not that easy, Guinevere, and I’m not sure what to think. I’m not sure what I _want_ to think.”

She nods and watches him silently for a while before she says, “You should talk to Gaius. If you want to find out what—“

“I don’t. Why is it so hard for people to understand that there’s nothing to find out or decide? He’s dead, and no matter what anyone’s going to tell me, that’s not going to change. It’s best to put the whole matter behind myself. I have a kingdom to run and, frankly, neither time nor energy to bother myself with some treasonous servant.”

Her expression darkens and there’s another twinge of guilt, but not enough to apologise. If it gets people to leave him alone, he’ll take it.

“This is not you, Arthur, and Merlin would—“

“No! Don’t do this, don’t bring up what he would or wouldn’t have done. You knew him as little as I obviously did, at least if you’re not lying to me as well, and it really _does not matter._ Not to mention, his insistence on being an insolent idiot doesn't give you the right to do the same,” he snarls. The anger’s flaring bright and hot underneath his skin, making the words tumble out without the filter he’s keeping such a tight hold on these days.

For a beat, it’s silent in the room, and then Guinevere turns to leave, only to stop again at the open door. “No matter what he did or did not do, Arthur, he would hate to see you act like this,” she says softly, and then she’s gone.

The click of the door makes him slump against the desk. He wouldn’t be surprised to find her gone the next day as he had with Gwaine—considering how he’s treating her, she’d probably be better off.

He absent-mindedly rubs at his chest, the ache that had settled there months ago still just as sharp, and wonders if it will ever get better. Wonders how much is going to be left of his friendships and himself if it does, and what he’s supposed to do if it doesn’t.

His eyes are burning and his breathing is heavy, and he briefly considers asking Gaius for a sleeping draught and telling one of the servants that he’s not to be disturbed tonight. He disregards it quickly though and simply locks the door, resigning himself to another night of little sleep.

If he rarely talks to his knights and Guinevere, he’s avoiding Gaius altogether. The only times he sees him are at court or in his father’s chambers, and Gaius is quiet these days, clouded in a clinical coldness and detachment. Not to mention that he seems to skirt around Arthur just as much.

Arthur can’t find it in himself to address the issue. It’s less because Gaius knew about Merlin and more due to his fear of being unable to hold back all the questions that well up within him whenever he’s not actively repressing them.

Underneath all the anger and betrayal, he’s terrified to discover just how little he knew the person he considered closest to him, to find out how much of it was a lie; how different things could’ve been if Merlin had felt that he could trust Arthur enough.

* * *

There’s a pyre standing in the middle of the courtyard, and the dread settling heavily in Arthur’s bones is familiar by now. He doesn’t know how or why, but it’s like he’s seen this scene many times, and he flinches away from it instinctively, a buzzing urge to turn his back and run.

As soon as the thought manifests, he finds himself unable to move. It feels different this time though, as if he’s in two places at once—one, on the balcony above the crowded space, the hand of his father holding him in place; two, being dragged through faceless masses, secured and bound by the burning sensation of cold iron around his wrists.

Which doesn’t make sense, a distant part of his mind whispers, but he’s too transfixed by the person who’s led to the stake now, calm and proud as if he’s still expecting someone to save him. Waiting for _Arthur_ , he knows, one of the few certainties he seems to have left. Everything within him is screaming to comply, his heart racing in his chest, too many conflicting emotions at once to discern them.

Or maybe it’s resignation, a voice whispers, sounding less like his own; an aching acceptance that with Arthur discovering the truth, there is no hope of being saved.

He shakes his head, confusion making it impossible to keep track of what is going on, and when he forces himself to focus again there are flames rising and a voice is screaming for him, begging and pleading for help or forgiveness. His inability to move and the smell that’s curling through the air like poison turn his stomach.

This part Arthur knows best, most intimately—he doesn’t know _why_ he does, only that it’s not because he has seen countless executions in his lifetime but rather because this one is the worst of them all. The way something simply _gives_ in his chest, shattering in a way that promises to be irreparable. It makes him want to curl in on himself and press his hands against his skin to assure himself there’s not an actual piece being torn out of him.

The silence that follows is heavy and stifling, but Arthur barely recognises it over the ringing in his ears. Only his father’s hand on his shoulder keeps him upright despite pressing down on him with expectations and duty. Never a comforting touch but always a silent admonition.

“Arthur.” The name drifts through the haze, but the sound is distorted, unlike his father, and maybe that’s what causes him to recoil so harshly.

“Don’t,” he snarls, his voice rough as if _he_ had been the one getting coated in smoke. “I’ll never forgive you for this.”

There’s a soft sigh, a shifting in the air. Then, “I know, and you don’t have to. You only have to listen to me—I know, that was never your strongest suit but this is important.”

It doesn’t sound like his father at all. In fact, it sounds an awful lot like—“Merlin?”

He finally forces his eyes to focus and finds himself no longer on the balcony but in a small clearing. It appears to be the middle of the night, and it’s dark but for a blue ball of light that’s hovering next to the man he has just seen executed. It’s difficult to make out his face though, the cape of a grey cloak keeping it in the shadows, and unlike Merlin, he’s standing tall, shoulders drawn back and arms crossed over his chest.

“Yes. Now listen, I don’t know how long or well this is going to work. Caerleon has men invading Camelot’s borders near the Northern Plains. They’re mostly disguised as bandits but are raiding villages and farmers, while Lot is also gathering forces. They think that, with your father sick, Camelot is weak—do with that what you will, but I thought you should know,” Merlin rattles off, and while there’s no doubt that this is Merlin, his voice carries little emotion.

Arthur swallows, trying to take in the information while also making sense of any of this. “Why— _how_ are you here? Why would you tell me this?” he finally asks and instantly winces at the way Merlin tenses further.

“You might hate me, but that doesn’t mean I want to see my friends hurt. Goodbye, Arthur,” Merlin says quietly, his tone softening towards the end.

He turns, the blue light flickering out of existence and the shadows of the forest swallowing him before Arthur can call for him to wait.

* * *

It’s with a strangled shout that Arthur shoots upright in his bed, utterly disoriented for several moments. He’s drenched in sweat and the covers have twisted around his legs, but the images of the second part of his dream are still vivid and clear like a memory.

For the fraction of a second, he allows himself the spark of hope that it might not have been just a dream, a new way of his mind to torture him in his sleep—because it would mean that Merlin got away; that he’s not only still alive, but still cares enough about Camelot to warn him.

He grinds his teeth together and shakes his head, shaking off the idea; regardless of how nice the thought, he has never been in the habit of deluding himself, and he’s not going to start now. It’s simply impossible that Merlin survived and Arthur’s memories and resulting nightmares make sure he never forgets what he saw.

Flopping back into his pillows, he presses his face into them and allows reality to sink in.

Despite his best intentions, when the first light finally filters through the windows without another minute of sleep, he can’t find it in himself to draw up the anger that has become such a constant companion over the last few months.

He should probably be glad for that, but it mostly leaves him exhausted and distracted. Both Leon and Lancelot get more than one hit in during training, and his left shoulder throbs throughout the open court session of the afternoon.

Leon has to nudge him more than once to pay attention to the concerns brought forward that all seem inconsequential, and as soon as the last dispute is solved, one way or another, he ignores his uncle and several of his advisors in favour of disappearing into his chambers.

One word is enough to get rid of the servant of the week, and he flops down into the armchair by the fire. The dream is still replaying in his mind, over and over, as if to convince him to put his trust into it, and his head spins from it all.

It was difficult enough to stop himself from thinking about it while he had a hundred things to do, and he simply lacks the energy to keep doing it now. Not to mention that anything is better than the constant nightmares about the pyre, and if indulging this—whatever this is—helps, he’ll take it.

There’s a memory tickling at the back of his mind when he recalls the scene and the blue light. It takes him only a moment to be thrown back to the caves of Balor, and he has to swallow against the resulting burning in his throat.

How ready he was, even back then, to risk his life for Merlin. They hadn’t known each other for more than a few weeks, and still, he had disobeyed his father without so much as a second of doubt.

The idea that it was Merlin who sent the light is comforting, but he quickly brushes it away; not only was he unconscious and dying at the time, but it makes everything so much more confusing.

With a sigh Arthur presses his fingers against his eyes and sinks deeper into the armchair. Maybe it’s simply a sign that his nightmares are slowly easing up, which would be a welcome change. For now, it’s easy to let the court believe that it’s the worry for his father that’s painting dark shadows under his eyes, but he doubts he’ll be able to go on like this for an indefinite amount of time.

Seeing some twisted version of Merlin spouting cryptic warnings every night might not have been his chosen alternative, and probably ‘not healthy’ either if he were to ask Guinevere, but some part deep within him might just like the idea to have at least this left. Confusing as all of it may be.

* * *

The nightmares don’t let up.

He barely catches more than a few hours of sleep each night, just enough to not slack off on all his duties as regent and to be able to avoid seeking out Gaius. At least the exhaustion keeps the panic about all his new responsibilities at bay as well as the anger did, though he thinks he’s the only one who would see merit in this particular method.

It’s a few weeks later that a messenger arrives at court and reports that there were several raids on villages and farms at the northern border to Caerleon. The jolt of recognition startles him fully to attention, but he pushes any and all thoughts of weird coincidences to the back of his mind in favour of stopping his uncles’ already coming suggestions.

“I will ride out with a small group of knights myself,” he says, and when Agravaine seems ready to protest, he shakes his head. “It’s important that the people still see me in my role as a knight. I’m sure it won’t take too long, it’s only a ride of two days.”

It’s not even an excuse, and he nearly manages to delude himself that it’s the sole reason why he wants to do it.

The rest of the day passes with preparations for their trip, and Arthur finds that he’s actually looking forward to getting out of the castle again.

When he steps into the courtyard at first light, Leon, Percival, Elyan, and Lancelot are already waiting for him, though he stops short when his eyes fall on Hengroen.

“Get me another horse,” he snaps at the stable boy, his teeth grinding together in an effort to hide the sudden wave of anguish that’s washing through him.

The boy hesitates. “My Lord, he’s in perfect health, we checked several times—“

It takes him longer than he cares to admit to get the meaning, and he bites back a mirthless laugh; he wishes his issue was as simple as worry about enchantments. “I don’t care, just get me another one.”

Thankfully, the knights know better than to say anything and soon enough, they’re riding through the lower town and out of the citadel.

Leaving the castle behind elicits mixed feelings in Arthur, something that seems to happen all too often these days. His duties as a knight have always been a welcome form of escape from the stifling formalities of the court, but now it’s also another harsh reminder of what—or who—is missing from his side.

Even his knights are unusually quiet. In the five months after Morgana’s betrayal, they all got used to Merlin accompanying them on every quest, and Arthur is probably not the only one who feels like the forest is too silent without the inane chatter of both Merlin and Gwaine.

Despite all that, the weight lifts from his shoulders ever so slightly the longer they ride, and the silence shifts into something more comfortable.

They make good progress in spite of the summer heat that’s smouldering them in their armour, and when the early evening brings a short, harsh downpour, Arthur easily allows them to set up camp earlier than they usually would.

Arthur nearly scoffs at himself when the distribution of tasks sends another pang through his chest. Really, it’s ridiculous how firmly Merlin carved himself into every little part of his life, so that even the simplest of situations brings memories to the forefront of his mind.

He shakes the thought and disappears to collect some firewood, needing a moment to breathe without the sensation of being watched. As inconspicuous as they all think they are, he has felt one glance or another on his neck the whole day.

When he returns, Lancelot and Elyan are busy preparing food while Leon and Percival are tending to the horses. Arthur stays silent while he tries to light the fire, but the wood is damp from the rain, and he curses under his breath after the umpteenth failed attempt.

“I don’t get how Merlin did it,” he mutters, more to himself. “No matter how bad the weather, he always managed to light a fire within minutes. It can’t be that hard, right?”

Elyan seems to have heard him because he clears his throat and shifts when Arthur looks over at him. “Well—maybe, you know…”

“What?”

“Maybe he used magic?” Elyan offers hesitantly, obviously uncertain of how good an idea it is to bring up that particular topic.

Arthur snorts and shakes his head. “I don’t think he would’ve been stupid enough to use it so blatantly.”

Lancelot makes a small sound in the back of his throat that he tries to cut off, just as Leon and Percival join them.

“Something to say, Lancelot?” Arthur asks, narrowing his eyes at the man as he fidgets on the log he’s sitting on.

There’s a pause, and then Lancelot visibly squares his shoulders and meets his eyes. “Did you never wonder about all those branches coincidentally falling on bandits? How clumsy enemies suddenly became even though they obviously knew how to wield a weapon? Creatures miraculously defeated after everyone but Merlin got knocked out, even though Gaius told you, time and time again, that they couldn’t be defeated with a normal sword? Merlin was many things, but he wasn’t overly cautious most of the time.”

It takes a moment for the words to sink in, and it takes everything Arthur has to not splutter at all the implications his mind so helpfully provides. At least all the others seem to be as stunned as him if their wide eyes are anything to go by.

“So—he wasn’t hiding but…” he trails off, remembering one too many occasions where he teased Merlin about being a coward. Even though he never really meant it in the first place, it feels infinitely worse now.

Lancelot only smiles. “I don’t know how many times, or all the things, he did. He wasn’t really the type to… share easily.” His expression shifts to pained and wistful, and he ducks his head to finish skinning the rabbit that he had abandoned over the last few minutes.

Arthur doesn’t know what to say to that, his mind still sifting through memories and bringing up questions he has long since gotten into the habit of ignoring. Why, he doesn’t know, but it all just makes the ache in his chest pulse sharply.

It’s exactly why he doesn’t want to know more about the whole matter; the growing certainty of how wrong Merlin’s execution was, the shame for treating him the way he did, how Merlin could’ve easily put a stop to it or left but never did—the questions that come with that. Was it really loyalty and friendship, or just a sense of duty to some destiny?

And—how many of Arthur’s accomplishments are actually his own?

The contemplative silence is broken when Leon clears his throat. “Would you—can you tell us about the incidents you do know about?”

Arthur’s gaze snaps to him, and his disbelief and objection must be clear on his face because Leon raises both his hands in a placating gesture. “I’m sorry, my Lord, but it would be dishonourable to not at least hear what he did for you—for Camelot.”

“He broke the law,” Arthur says through clenched teeth, even though it’s one of the things that has stopped bothering him the easiest.

Leon doesn’t back down though, his eyes calm as he gives a small shrug. “And he has suffered his punishment, however just or unjust. But I, for one, wish to remember him the way he apparently was, and it looks to me like we’re missing rather a lot of information. Wouldn’t you prefer to know with certainty that not all of it was lies and treason?”

No, Arthur doesn’t. Or rather, he already does know that, and it just makes dealing with everything so much harder. He _knows_ this because while Morgana’s betrayal hurts like hell, all the anger and disappointment he feels for her let him deal with it so much better.

He can’t tell his men this though, and simply averts his eyes, focusing back on trying to light the fire.

It’s hard to miss that it’s important to Leon in particular, and he bites back a wince at his selfishness. Merlin was well-liked in Camelot and Leon had known him nearly as long as Arthur, and even though Arthur has been mostly stuck on his own issues, it’s no surprise that he’s not the only one still grieving and wondering.

Lancelot clears his throat again, just as a small flame flickers into existence, and after another glance at Arthur, starts speaking slowly. “As I said, I only know of a few times and was present for even fewer. I found out when he killed the Griffin all those years ago—“

“But I saw you, with the spear,” Arthur interrupts, frowning when he recalls that night.

“True,” Lancelot nods. “Merlin enchanted it though. He thought I wouldn’t notice, but it was the main reason I left Camelot, despite your insistence. I couldn’t take credit for something I didn’t do.”

Arthur purses his lips and nods sharply. He feels like he’s going to find out about a few things he shouldn’t have taken credit for either, not that he ever got the choice.

“How is it that you caught him the first time you met, and we didn’t notice for years?” Leon mutters, but there’s a small smile tugging at his lips as he shakes his head.

Elyan tilts his head. “Well, nobody else did, right? He must have become more careful, and he also was just… very unsuspicious. I don’t even mean that it was some kind of act—“

“It wasn’t,” Lancelot says sharply, his shoulders suddenly stiff. “I know what people believe in Camelot—that all sorcerers are evil and deceitful, but Merlin was brave and generous and the most self-sacrificing person I’ve ever met.”

“We’re not saying he wasn’t,” Leon says softly, earning a sheepish look from Lancelot. “And well—the Druids who saved me were actually really kind too.”

Arthur has to breathe deeply against bone-deep instincts urging him to act at the treasonous statements, but thankfully, something else distracts him. “Oh, by the gods,” he mutters, staring into the distance. “He even announced it. To the whole council, no less, shortly after my father made him my servant.”

There’s a loud clanking sound as Leon drops the bowls he was just handing to Elyan, and Lancelot chokes on air as he splutters, “He did _what_?”

It takes another moment for the memory to fully form, and Arthur’s helpless against the small smile curling his lips. “There was a plague or something, and I think… Oh yes, Guinevere’s father was sick, and then suddenly healed.” Come to think of it, that was probably Merlin as well. It’s exactly the kind of thing he would have done. Idiot, Arthur thinks fondly, and then quickly shakes the thought.

“According to Gaius, the plague was caused by magic, and with her father the only one miraculously cured, my father suspected her to be responsible. He sentenced her to death, and in an attempt to save her, Merlin stormed into a council session and confessed that it was him,” he explains, avoiding the others’ eyes as he throws more wood into the fire.

There’s a beat of silence before Elyan asks, “How did he survive that? Gwen never told me about it.”

Arthur grimaces and ducks his head further. “I told them that there was no way Merlin was a sorcerer and that he was only claiming to be because he was in love with her. Gaius supported my claim and my father actually found it amusing.”

A glance at Lancelot shows him with his head buried in his arms, and Arthur’s unsure if he’s hiding amusement or exasperation; if the expressions of the others are anything to go by, they’re conflicted about which to settle on as well.

“And how was the whole thing resolved? Seeing that my sister did not get executed,” Elyan eventually says, and Arthur winces at the tension in his voice.

“There was a monster in the water under the city, and Merlin found out how to defeat it,” he says with a sigh, only to tag on a groan when he realises that it must have been another occurrence where he didn’t actually do the work. He did wonder for a while how the flames got so huge from a bit of wind.

Clearing his throat, he pins Lancelot with a look. “You said there were other incidents that you know of?”

Now that he’s started to hear about them, there’s suddenly a burning need to know more, despite his best intentions. For the first time since that blasted, bloody day, he feels—he doesn’t really know. Not as angry and numb as he’s become accustomed to at least, even though there’s a healthy dose of exasperation and disbelief, and thinking of Merlin in general just hurts.

It hurts either way though, so maybe it doesn’t matter. Leon has a point when he says that it’s only right to remember him as he deserves.

Lancelot hums and starts distributing the roasted rabbit into the bowls while Elyan hands out bread. “We wouldn’t have defeated Morgause and Morgana without him.”

Arthur nearly drops his food. Never let it be said that Lancelot doesn’t know how to start a story, and maybe he shouldn’t be surprised. But as far as he’s concerned, an undead army, a High Priestess, and whatever the hell his sister is, are a bit of a different deal than a Griffin or a water monster.

“He had a sword that could kill those undead soldiers, and we fought our way to the throne room—“

“Weren’t you supposed to take care of the warning bells?” Arthur interrupts, but Lancelot merely smiles at him. When did his most honourable knight become so… _this_?

“It was a cover. Merlin knew that in order to defeat the army, we needed to spill the blood in the cup of life, which he assumed to be in the throne room.”

Arthur remembers the cup and their attempt to get it from the Druids; somehow, he hadn’t paid it much mind when they retook Camelot, and he can slowly make out a pattern here.

“I offered to accompany him, hence, the cover with the warning bells. He was right though, and we did make it to the throne room, but Morgause attacked him before he could spill it.” Here, Lancelot stops and shifts again, his eyes fixed on the fire. “The details are a bit hazy to be honest because I was keeping those soldiers at bay, but he eventually managed to land a blow on her and spill the cup. Morgause is either dead or fatally wounded, but Morgana disappeared with her when she brought the ceiling down.”

“I always wondered why the whole army simply vanished into thin air,” Percival murmurs, and the others nod in agreement.

Something else sticks out to Arthur though, apart from the vague impression that there’s a part Lancelot didn’t tell them. “Did you say he had a sword that could kill them?”

Lancelot nods. “He didn’t tell me much about it, to be honest. Just that it was forged in a dragon’s breath and could kill anything, basically.”

Arthur’s gaping, he knows, but on top of everything else, this is just a bit too insane. “Forged in dragon’s breath?”

“I’m sorry, but I have no idea,” Lancelot says with a grimace. “I tried getting more out of him, but I think he simply distracted me. I never saw it again after that either now that I think about it.”

He nods, but his attention is already far away. There are just so many things tugging his mind into several directions, that it’s hard to focus on anything at all. Most of all, he feels like there’s a new edge to the grief.

Merlin not once sought credit, always ready to let Arthur have the glory, and it’s humbling and painful in equal measures. It’s just so very _Merlin_ , while at the same time, he feels like he never really knew him at all.

Maybe the biggest problem is that whatever he hears, he’ll never get a chance to do anything about it that is worthwhile; like saying thank you, maybe, or hearing an actual explanation. 

“We should sleep,” he says when a headache starts forming behind his temples. The knights are still murmuring among themselves, and Arthur suddenly feels very lonely.

“I’ll take first watch,” Lancelot offers when they’ve set out their bedrolls, and Arthur nods in agreement before settling down.

He doubts that he’ll be able to sleep anytime soon, but he’s glad for the silence falling over the camp, the familiar sounds of the forest around them and the soft flicker of the fire dancing behind his eyelids.

* * *

The weirdly familiar scene of the execution shifts the moment the pyre is lit, and it takes Arthur several moments to realise he’s in a clearing, a blue ball of light floating next to who he just knows to be Merlin.

“I’ve dreamt of you before,” he murmurs, straining his eyes to catch a glimpse of the face underneath the grey hood. He’s not sure _how_ he knows he’s dreaming, though it’s the only thing that makes sense, all things considered.

“Have you, now?” There’s faint amusement in Merlin’s voice, but then he clears his throat and straightens up. “Didn’t make you listen to me, but that’s probably to be expected. Anyway, you’re—“

Arthur shakes his head and takes a quick step forward, the flat tone and closed off posture urging him to close the distance between them, maybe shake Merlin until he crooks a smile, maybe apologise. For what, he’s not quite sure, he just knows that he desperately needs to. 

Merlin instantly takes a step back. “I have no idea what exactly you’re seeing, but this isn’t real. Well, not completely, anyway. All you need to know is that you have not enough knights with you and are expected.”

“They’re bandits,” Arthur scoffs, unable to help himself as he raises his chin. Figures that dream-Merlin would be as exasperating as the original.

Merlin huffs. “I told you that they’re Caerleon’s men, I’m just not sure yet how they know you’re coming.”

“But it’s a dream. How could anything I dream about be possibly true?” Arthur asks with a frown. The whole thing sends his mind reeling, and he thinks it’s rather unfair that even asleep, things just don’t make _sense_ anymore.

There’s a pause before Merlin shrugs. “That’s fair, I guess. The simple answer is magic, the more complicated one, I won’t get into.”

Arthur must have let some of his shock bleed into his expression because there’s another huff. “It won’t harm you—“

“That’s not—I mean—magic? Like… like Morgana’s dreams?” he stammers, painfully aware of the sudden tremble in his hands and the sinking pit in his stomach.

Something about Merlin’s whole demeanour softens, and he makes a gesture as if to reach for Arthur, though he quickly snatches his hand back. “No, Arthur, you don’t have any latent magical abilities. I know you don’t trust me, and I really can’t explain it to you. Just try to believe me with this—it’s not a simple dream, and I think deep down you know that.”

Frustration is bubbling in his stomach and he crosses his arms over his chest. “Well, it’s a bit hard, all things considered.”

He meant it mostly regarding the whole dreaming-business, seeing that he still has a hard time wrapping his mind around it, but with the way tension shoots into Merlin’s shoulders, he quickly realises how that could’ve come across differently.

“Then don’t,” Merlin snaps, his voice several degrees colder, and before Arthur can utter another word, he has vanished from sight.

* * *

Arthur wakes with a start but manages to keep any noises from getting out. His heart is pounding against his ribs, and his hands are clammy despite the chill of the night. He lies motionless for several minutes until he has his breathing back under control, though he’s unable to do anything about the scene replaying in front of his eyes.

Of course it makes sense that he’d dream of Merlin after the conversation they had over dinner, but he can’t shake the feeling that it was all too real, too close to events unfolding in his life. Too weird in every regard, and only more so the longer he thinks about it.

With a sigh he gets up and pushes the whole thing to the back of his mind. Seriously, he’s getting scarily good at that.

“Sire?” Leon’s voice drifts towards him from where he’s sitting against a tree, polishing his sword in the dim light of the fire.

Arthur smiles and sits down next to him. “I can take watch from here.”

Leon hesitates, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye. “Are you alright, Arthur?”

For a moment, he considers brushing him off again, but he still remembers thinking that he was behaving more than a little selfishly. “Yeah, just—it’s all a lot to take it,” he murmurs instead, fixing his gaze on the dark treeline.

A hum of agreement is his only answer for the next few seconds, until Leon says, “He was a good man.”

“He was,” Arthur agrees, unable to keep up the façade of still being angry, or bothered by the breaking of the law. There’s a flash of surprise crossing Leon’s face before he inclines his head to Arthur and smiles. 

“Get some sleep,” Arthur says, squeezing his shoulder and settling down more comfortably.

He knows he wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep, but the silence and solitude make it difficult to avoid thinking about the dream or trying to figure out all the occasions where Merlin had used his magic to help Camelot without Arthur’s knowledge.

In the end, he reverts to mentally going over reports, matters of court, and plans for the near future to keep himself occupied, though his focus does slip more often than he would like. But regardless of his curiosity, going through memories of Merlin only threatens to distract him even more, not to mention that he’s already overwhelmed with everything as it is.

Some things are just better left in the past, and if he tells himself that often enough, he might finally start to believe it.

When the first light breaks, Arthur doesn’t hesitate to wake up the others and, ignoring the muttered complaints, urges them to hurry up.

The sun is just rising over the edge of the trees as they leave the camp, and they set a quick pace, only the dull sound of the horses and the awakening forest keeping them company.

But in spite of trying to brush off the strange warning, Arthur can’t help but pay even more attention to their surroundings than he usually would. They’ve just left the forest around the fortress of Idirsholas behind them—and Arthur does _not_ think about everything that happened the last time he was here, the days to follow, and how many pieces of the story he might be missing—when the sound of distant shouting reaches his ears.

He gestures for his knights to slow down, and as they get closer it increasingly reminds him of the sounds of battle except for the absence of clinging metal.

The forest is sparse here, slowly giving way to the open expanse of the Northern Plains, and he eventually brings his horse to a halt, indicating for the others to dismount and follow him. They’re careful to stay quiet, and not for the first time does he think that their bright-red cloaks are rather hindering when they’re trying to stay hidden.

Strangely enough, the noise seems to be dying down, and Arthur’s heart is racing in the familiar way of readying himself for battle while, at the same time, he has to hold himself back from rushing forward out of sheer curiosity.

They’re just nearing the tree line when he’s finally able to make out words among the meaningless shouts; or well, that might be a bit of a euphemism. He doesn’t actually understand any of it, and it’s easy to guess that it’s more chanting than talking.

Tensing on instinct, he crouches down behind a bush and tries to catch a glimpse of what’s going on in front of him, one hand firmly on his sword.

The first thing he spots are bodies—lots of them, littering the ground only a few feet away from him. There’s a sharp intake of breath from his right and he glares in the general direction before following Leon’s line of sight.

A man is standing in the middle of what has apparently just been a battlefield, the long white hair poking out from underneath a hood tickling a memory at the back of his mind. One of his hands is raised, and he’s just throwing back what has to be the last of what appear to be bandits.

At least that’s what it looks like. Arthur has a bit of a hard time believing that this old sorcerer has single-handedly defeated this amount of men, but there’s simply no better explanation.

He’s just considering a tactical retreat—most decidedly _not_ running—when the sorcerer tilts his head slightly in their direction. “Ah, Pendragon. I see you have arrived.”

Next to him, the sound of several swords being drawn cuts through the silence, but all it elicits from the sorcerer is a throaty chuckle, though he does not turn around.

Forcing himself into a standing position, Arthur draws his sword. “Show yourself! What is your business? And how did you know we were here?”

“I cast wards to alert me of your arrival, of course,” the man says, still sounding faintly amused as he tips his head back to look up at the sky. “And my business—well, I saved you from an ambush. No need to thank me or anything.”

The cheekiness is strangely familiar, and suddenly Arthur remembers where he has heard the insolent, distinctive voice before. “You! You were the one who planted a poultice in my chambers.”

Another low laugh as the man shakes his head. “Ah, but you and I both know that you were not enchanted to fall in love, do we not? Which, come to think of it, makes this two times I saved your sorry backside.”

That throws Arthur a bit for a loop, but he can’t really argue that particular point. “Sorcery is outlawed in Camelot, so you still broke the law. Not to mention that I doubt you’re acting out of the goodness of your heart.”

There’s a deep sigh that seems to stir the very air around them, and the sorcerer’s shoulders slump. “It does not matter what you believe. My business here is done. The men are merely unconscious, so if you decide to take them back to Camelot, make sure to be careful.”

“Wait!” Arthur shouts before he can think better of it, something compelling him to keep the conversation going. He bites his lip, then looks at Leon and tilts his head slightly; he’s not even sure if he really wants to capture this man, but he can’t very well justify anything else in front of his men.

“Why would you care if we were ambushed?”

He doesn’t see the sorcerer move or even hear him speak, but he absolutely does feel the moment he can’t move any longer.

“Honestly, it _is_ rather rude to attack someone whose back is turned, and who just saved your lives,” the sorcerer mutters, shaking his head. He’s still not turning around though, and Arthur’s seriously starting to wonder why he seems so averse to facing them. “Not that I would expect anything else from you.”

It’s the first time that a hint of bitterness creeps into his tone, and his shoulders straighten.

Arthur takes a deep breath to keep himself from snapping before he says, “You didn’t answer my question. Why would you fight a, admittedly rather large, group of bandits on my behalf? Assuming these _are_ bandits?” The last bit comes out rather involuntarily, and he inwardly curses his inability to finally let go of that blasted dream.

Another chuckle is not what he expects to hear. “I do not know who these men are, and I have no desire to get into my motives. I mean you no harm, Prince Arthur, and let us leave it at that. Until then.”

The sorcerer tilts his head to the side as if in farewell. Arthur opens his mouth to argue, to call for him to wait once more, but there’s a flash of light, and when he manages to blink the spots out of his vision, the man is gone.

“Well,” Elyan says when the silence stretches for long moments, “That was—something.”

“At least he lifted the spell before he left,” Arthur sighs, shaking himself to get rid of the uncomfortable feeling of being unable to move.

The whole aftermath is a bit of a blur if he’s honest; they decide to not try taking the thirty or so bandits back to Camelot but wait for the leader to wake up and leave it with a warning.

Arthur suspects that it might not hold all that much weight, seeing that it was some unrelated sorcerer who took them out in the first place, but short of killing each and every one of them, he doesn’t have all that many options.

They leave before too many of them wake up, and Arthur makes them ride hard to put some distance between them; not only physically, but also because it’s seriously just another way too confusing thing on top of everything else, and he feels like his head is just going to burst if he tries making sense of any of it.

The strange warning from his dream is still echoing through his thoughts. It _would_ have been too many men for him and his knights, and it seems a bit too convenient that some old, powerful sorcerer decided to take care of the problem.

The others appear equally uncertain about what to make of the whole thing, the tension between them nearly as high as when they’d just left Camelot.

For the first time since that blasted, bloody day, Arthur admits to himself just how much he misses Merlin. He probably would’ve managed his occasional bout of wisdom by now and diffused the oppressing feeling.

By the gods, he misses the infuriating idiot so very much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, Arthur's not really having a good time either.... 
> 
> Thanks for reading. ❤️


	4. anywhere I want, just not home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from, once again, [Taylor Swift - my tears ricochet](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OWbDJFtHl3w) ❤️

Merlin knows that he’s acting like a petulant child, but he can’t help himself. “That stubborn, infuriating idiot! First, he disregards my warnings, and then he doesn’t even have the decency to be grateful. Not that I’m not used to it or anything, but—” he breaks off and throws his hands up before turning his glare on Kilgharrah as the dragon merely chuckles.

Granted, he’s not sure what he expected, ranting at Kilgharrah, but it’s still much better than the patient, indulgent smiles from Iseldir that make him feel even more like a child. He loves the man, truly he does, but it’s a bit unfair to be hailed as some saviour while also constantly being humoured.

“Next time, I’ll let him run into the ambush. See how he likes it,” he grumbles, before plopping down on the ground to lean against Kilgharrah’s chest.

“You won’t,” Kilgharrah says, but he’s breathing warm breath over Merlin in a manner that has become strangely comforting over the last few months, so maybe he can find it in himself to forgive him.

Still. “Careful, I can always order you to deal with him in my stead,” he quips back before letting out a measured breath and closing his eyes. “It was just… hard to nearly see him again.”

Kilgharrah bumps his snout against the side of his head and then stretches his wings, obviously resigning himself to being here for a while. “As reasonable as your complaints are, you must admit that your method of warning is not the most convincing to someone who believes you dead.”

He groans and lets his head drop back, squinting against the rays of sunlight streaming through the trees at the edge of the clearing. “Maybe, but—I don’t know.”

“You hoped he wouldn’t try to attack you.”

“No!” he snaps, only to clench his eyes shut and rub a hand over his face. “Maybe. Foolish, I know, it’s not as if seeing me die would change his mind about magic.”

There’s a pause that Merlin would call hesitation if he didn’t know Kilgharrah better. “You might be surprised if you weren’t convinced that keeping your continued existence a secret is the best course of action.”

It has become a familiar argument between them, but Merlin is too exhausted to get into it yet again. “I might also have realised that your habit of talking in riddles wasn’t all that bad,” he mutters instead, his hands running through the grass at his sides.

Kilgharrah hums and silence settles between them for a while.

“I think you’re starting to become restless, young warlock.”

Merlin doesn’t bother to bite back a grimace. It’s true—he has settled into a routine within the camp over the last four months, and for a time, it was nice. Life out here is simple, and between helping around the camp, teaching a few tricks to the children, and learning more about magic and the Old Religion than he has in all his years in Camelot, he is as content as can be expected.

For the most part, it has become easier to—well. Maybe not _deal_ with it, but at least ignore the loss of his home, his friends, and the events that led to him sun-bathing in a clearing with Kilgharrah for company.

It doesn’t really help against the hollow feeling that has taken up residence in his chest, or against the dreams that are bothering him increasingly often—about Arthur, the things he did for him, the pyre, the horrified expression on Arthur’s face—but he at least manages to pretend.

Today a little less well than usual, but that’s probably fair. Even though he kept himself from actually _looking_ at Arthur, hearing his voice was bad enough. Not the slightly distorted version from contacting him through the crystal but _there_ , only a few feet behind him.

He digs his nails into his palms to focus on the present and swallows against the burning in his throat. “You’re probably right. They’ve taught me most of what they know, and I’m getting tired of seeing the same fleck of forest each day. I’m just—not sure where to go.”

“There are other magic users; Druid camps, followers of the Old Religion not in allegiance with Morgana—“

Merlin huffs a short laugh and cranes his neck to look at Kilgharrah. “You mean it would be beneficial for me to find them before Morgana does.”

Kilgharrah’s lips curl in imitation of a smile and he inclines his head. “Is that such a bad idea?”

Probably not. Actually, the more Merlin thinks about it, the more he can see the merit. “Do you know where I could find them? Maybe not another Druid camp for now, though,” he eventually asks, ignoring the smug look on Kilgharrah’s face.

“There is a place, an island to the West of Gwynned—“

“Caerleon’s kingdom,” Merlin mutters, a spark of anger reigniting in his chest at the reminder of the men he had to deal with earlier.

“Indeed. It remains mostly untouched by King Caerleon though and has a small community of High Priests and Priestesses, Bendrui, and Druids who are not as content with the peaceful and reclusive life as those you’ve met. It’s called _Ynys Gybi_ _,_ or the Holy Island.”

There are so many questions racing through Merlin’s head, he doesn’t know where to start. The desire to meet others like him is something he learnt to bury deep within himself during all the years in Camelot’s walls, but he can feel it reawaken with a force that nearly vanishes the lingering ache in his chest.

“Won’t I be too far away to intervene if something should happen?” he asks, because, despite everything, Arthur’s still his main priority, as much as he might question his sanity some days.

Kilgharrah merely laughs, the sound reverberating through the clearing and startling a flock of birds into taking flight. “I think you’ve managed your transportation spell well enough to not worry over travel distances. If not, you’re always welcome to call me, young warlock.”

“Are you offering yourself as a method of transportation?” Merlin says with a grin and laughs when Kilgharrah swats him over the head with his wing. Sobering, he asks another question. “What are—how did you call them—Bendrui? Do you even think I’d be welcome there?”

There’s a sigh that speaks of deep exasperation, but Merlin is rather immune to Kilgharrah’s acts by now. “I don’t think there are many magical beings that would not want to meet you, young warlock. And those who try standing against you still do not pose a problem to you.”

“Oh great, more worship,” he sighs, sinking a bit deeper against Kilgharrah so that he’s nearly stretched out on the ground.

“Well, you could always stay here. Or return to Camelot.”

“Right, yes, not doing that,” he says, and if he’s honest, it didn’t take long for most of the Druids he’s staying with to treat him more like one of them than—whatever they thought of him before. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to know the details. “So, Bendrui?”

“Ah yes. They’re followers of the Old Religion as the High Priests and Priestesses are, but didn’t reach the same status. There are not many of them left as with most followers of the Old Religion,” Kilgharrah explains, his voice growing sombre towards the end.

It’s another thing Merlin has come to understand better while learning from the Elders; the incomprehensible amount of knowledge that is lost, the traditions and, most of all, the actual people. Not just numbers but individuals, made up and preserved through stories and legends.

If he couldn’t stand Uther Pendragon before the man sentenced him to death, some days it’s only his love for Arthur and Camelot that holds him back from a desire for revenge now, whenever he thinks too much about it.

“I’ll go,” he says softly, the idea taking shape in his mind. “But I will take some time to say goodbye.”

Kilgharrah merely sends another wave of warm breath over him, and they stay in the clearing until the sun starts dipping behind the line of the trees.

* * *

In the end, it’s Iseldir who makes him get over his sentimentality of staying in the place that has become as close to home as he has these days.

Merlin has just finished stocking up on firewood, and is washing up in the small stream that runs down one side of the camp, when he hears the familiar footsteps approaching.

“You’re stalling,” is all Iseldir says, and when Merlin looks up at him in confusion, he smiles and holds out a travel bag.

It takes him several moments to take it, and a quick look reveals two sets of clothes, batches of herbs and necessities for healing, a bedroll, and some bread, dried meat, and fruits. There’s clearly an enchantment on the bag to fit in more than should be possible. “Are you making me leave?” he can’t help but ask, more hurt in his voice than he anticipated, but he hasn’t spoken about leaving in over a week, and this is unexpected.

He probably should’ve known better.

“Of course not, Emrys. You’ll always be welcome here. But we both know that there’s more waiting for you,” Iseldir says, his eyes kind and patient.

Merlin swallows but can’t help the small smile tugging at his lips. “Sometimes, I do wonder if you can not only hear me speak, but actually read my mind,” he says, and then holds out the bag to him. “I can’t take this though, it’s too much after everything you’ve done for me.”

“I want you to go and tell Ambika that. If you can convince her, I’ll let you leave with nothing but what you have on your back,” Iseldir says, his grin now decidedly more amused than kind, and Merlin’s groan only serves to broaden it. “But really, we are happy to provide you with this. The children have something for you as well.”

Merlin slumps against a tree, and breathes against the sudden lump in his throat, before he dares to speak again. “Do you think it’s—that I’m going to be fine?”

Iseldir’s expression softens, and he lays a warm hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “I’m not saying this because I’ve seen your power, your ability to cast wards and heal and master spells—I’m saying this because I’ve gotten to know you. No matter what happens, as long as you stay true to your heart, it will all turn out well. Trust in yourself, and if you need a place to rest, you will always find us.”

He doesn’t cry, but it’s a close thing, and if he hides a few stray-tears in the hood of Iseldir’s cloak when he hugs him, nobody has to know.

* * *

There’s a raven settled on his shoulder when he leaves the camp three days later, black feathers gleaming in the morning sunlight as it tugs on Merlin’s hair. The children said his name is Taranis, and while Merlin thinks that naming a bird after the god of air and thunder might be a bit over the top, shortening it to Tara had only led to his current predicament of assault.

“If you keep doing that, I might just shorten it again,” he mutters, and gods, he’s already talking to animals but there’s a faint smile he doesn’t bother fighting. He just knows that Iseldir and Ambika are behind this last gift as well.

At some point over the last few days, he’d decided to travel by foot. When he told Kilgharrah, the blasted dragon laughed at him, until he realised Merlin was serious, and then muttered something about humans, madness, and Merlin’s personal brand of stupidity, but he can’t find it in himself to care.

Maybe it’s insulting to reject the offer of riding a dragon, or walking is just something that doesn’t _appeal_ to dragons, but there’s something that feels so right about the decision that Merlin can’t even bring himself to mourn his lack of a horse.

Though if he comes across some bandits set on annoying him, he wouldn’t be averse to maybe grabbing some coin and a means of transportation.

The first week goes by without a hitch though. He mostly stays off the main roads, unwilling to risk encountering any of Camelot’s knights—even though he has grown his hair and beard out, he has no doubt that a majority of them would recognise him—and makes good progress.

Most nights, he finds small caves or sheltered spots where he sets up wards, cooks whatever he’s found over the day, and the warmth of mid-summer, as well as spending so much time in the forest, would usually leave him with nothing to wish for.

As it is, his solitude gives him too much time to think, to reminiscence and wonder and _long_. It becomes harder with each passing day to not use the crystal to simply watch what his friends are doing, but every time his fingers itch, he reminds himself of the blow when he scried Arthur that first time.

Keeping an eye on Camelot, in general, is already painful, and he has never been so thankful that as Arthur’s servant, he had been privy to all the information on allies and enemies; it’s much less bothersome to watch them. The only issue he keeps running into is that he can’t get a clear picture of Morgana who is, admittedly, his biggest concern.

He only ever gets blurry scraps of her travelling, but at least knows that Morgause is still alive, if only barely. All he can do is hope that it’ll keep Morgana occupied for a while.

He blames the restlessness when, two days before crossing the border to Gwynned, the sound of shouts and clanging metal reaches his ears, and he nearly stumbles over his own feet, breaking into a run before he even thinks about it.

Taranis gives an indignant caw, but keeps circling over him as he skids to a halt, just before rushing into the middle of a fight without any concept of what’s going on.

There are only five men, but they’re all crowding the space of a single boy who doesn’t look older than sixteen but has somehow managed to hold his own, until now. He’s just plunging his sword into one of his opponents when it becomes apparent why—a second attacker tries using his distraction to attack his back when an invisible force pushes him back.

The magic is obviously not strong enough to save him, but it gives Merlin a clear view of the boy for the first time, and he freezes in his attempt to intervene. Even though it’s been a few years, he immediately recognises the face that used to play an occasional role in his nightmares.

It distracts him for long enough that Mordred has already lost his advantage again. It’s only the enraged shouts about depraved sorcerers that finally startle him out of his stupor.

With a quick thought, the five grown men are thrown back, and he strides into the clearing where Mordred is staring around himself in surprise. After a quick look to make sure they’ll stay down for a while, Merlin slows his steps and turns to him.

He really does look young, even more so as his eyes widen in obvious recognition, the sword in his hand now pointing at the ground but shaking slightly in his exhausted grip.

Merlin remembers their last encounter well enough and squelches the impulse to immediately check him for injuries. There’s still a, admittedly small, part of him that is wary of Mordred, but he hasn’t spent four months getting lectured about prophecies and destinies by the combined forces of Medea, Ambika, and Urias to forget about it the first time it matters.

“Are you alright?” he asks softly, taking note of the sheen of sweat on the dark brows, and the unnatural paleness of his skin.

Mordred gives a slow, hesitant nod, as if he’s not quite sure himself, and then stumbles back a few steps until he can lean against a tree at the edge of the clearing.

For long moments, they stay in their silent impasse, until Taranis lands on his shoulder and pecks his ear none-too-gently. “Right, yes,” he mutters and scrambles to get the waterskin out of his bag. “Come on, you should probably drink something, and we better get out of here before they wake up. Do you know what they wanted from you?”

If in doubt, fall back on rambling; seems like some things don’t change. To his relief, it’s as effective as it always was, and some of the tension melts from Mordred’s shoulders.

“Bounty hunters,” he says with a shudder. “Thank you, Emrys. I don’t think I could’ve held them off much longer.”

Merlin’s mood immediately takes a turn for the worse, but he pushes his anger down in favour of crossing the distance between them to press the waterskin into Mordred’s hands. “Drink. And you’re welcome, though if you don’t mind me asking—couldn’t you have used more magic?”

Mordred finally drinks but he averts his eyes at the question, his shoulders hunching. The movement makes him flinch, one of his hands flying to his side and coming away red.

“Shit, why didn’t you tell me you’re hurt?”

His only answer is a groan, and then Mordred stumbles a step forward, only Merlin’s quick reflexes keeping him from falling. It’s eerily similar to their first meeting, with the difference that Mordred’s nearly grown now, and he has to lean his full body weight into keeping him upright.

Another groan breaks through the silence of the forest, this one coming from behind him, and Merlin clenches his teeth. He has half a mind to make sure none of these men will get up again, but it seems a bit too cold-blooded, all things considered.

Instead, he waves a hand to send all of them into a deep sleep and then carefully settles Mordred on the ground to get a better look at his injury.

Thankfully, it’s only his hip and looks like it has been grazed by an arrow, which would explain how they even managed to catch him in the first place. It’s easy enough to heal, though it’ll take some time for the effects of the blood-loss to wear off.

Merlin doesn’t plan to stay here for that long and, after a moment of consideration, leaves Mordred where he is to collect the weapons and any valuable belongings of the bounty hunters before getting the horses.

A bit of magic sees Mordred safely secured on one of them while Merlin takes another, and he has the remaining three follow them along with a soft compulsion. He’s not leaving these men with anything but the clothes on their backs, and the horses will bring some money once they make it to Gwynned.

All in all, it could’ve gone a lot worse, but he still makes sure to obliterate any tracks the horses leave. He’s not taking any chances and doesn’t stop until they’ve crossed the border. The Goddess knows that the slightest rumour of two sorcerers might be enough to raise Uther from his apathy and send the whole kingdom on a hunt for them.

It’s long past sundown when he finally finds a sheltered place to set up camp, and he’s exhausted. Still, he makes sure to settle Mordred on a bedroll by the fire before he starts rubbing down the horses, setting up wards, and cooking dinner.

Movement from behind him alerts him to Mordred waking up just as he’s finishing the stew, but he keeps his back turned.

It takes another few minutes but then—“Emrys?”

Merlin moves slowly but smiles, gesturing to the food. “Are you hungry?”

Mordred’s eyes flick to the fire, but a frown is forming between his brows and he looks ready to bolt at any second.

Right. He should probably address the issue then. “Look, you—I’m sorry for what I did the last time we saw each other. There’s no excuse and if you’d prefer to be alone, you can have the horses, some food, and I’ll leave. You should be back to full health tomorrow, and you can go back to cursing my name.”

The expression on Mordred’s face is unreadable, his eyes boring into Merlin’s, but then a slow smirk forms on his lips and he shrugs. “You saved my life twice and only tried to get me killed once, so I think we’re good for now. We can see where this leads us. But if you could tell me what happened, that would be great.”

He can’t help the amused grin at the admission and nods, handing Mordred a bowl of food. “You passed out from blood-loss and I healed your injury. Then I relieved those bastards of their possessions and brought us out of Camelot in case they decide to complain about their… newfound circumstances.”

Mordred snorts, but he’s eying him curiously. “Why aren’t you with Prince Arthur?”

Apparently, half a day isn’t nearly enough time to prepare himself for that question and he barely manages to cover his flinch. “It’s a long story.”

“Well,” Mordred says, drawing the sound out and pointedly looking around the small space they’re in. “We have time?”

He sighs, staring down into his food and fiddling with the spoon. Technically, there’s no need to tell Mordred anything, but seeing that he doesn’t plan on hiding himself from the magical community, there’s no real harm done in answering his question either.

“My magic was discovered, and Uther ordered my execution,” he finally answers, and if Mordred’s horrified expression is anything to go by, his weak smile did nothing to make this sound less horrible than it was.

“So, you escaped?”

Right, and that’s the complicated part, isn’t it? But Merlin is tired—so very tired of lying and hiding and all the things that brought him here in the first place. “Not exactly.”

“But how—“ Mordred starts, only to break off again, eyes widening as his spoon clatters into the bowl and he pales. “It’s true then? I mean—sorry, that’s probably really insensitive, just—do you mean to say—was he actually successful?“

The sputtering is kind of adorable, and Merlin wonders if he appeared as… _young_ when he arrived in Camelot as Mordred now looks. It feels like an eternity has passed since then.

“I think he wouldn’t call it successful if he knew I’m still alive but basically, yes,” he says, biting back a grimace at the memories.

Mordred gives a slow nod, his eyes scanning Merlin over as if searching for injuries. “That’s what I felt, then,” he murmurs, more to himself, and picks his spoon back up. “What have you been up to? Enjoying your free time?” he adds, the smirk back on his face, and it startles a laugh out of Merlin.

He wouldn’t be able to put into words how grateful he is that Mordred doesn’t pry further, and he wonders if that kind of understanding is something that magical people share; Iseldir and the others were much the same.

“Not really. I stayed with Iseldir for a while and only just left a week ago. I’m still keeping an eye on Camelot but I’m planning to visit Ynys Gybi for as long as I’m not needed to keep Arthur safe.”

“I have so many questions,” Mordred mutters, sitting up straighter, food obviously forgotten. “Why would you still care for Camelot? How are Iseldir and the others? And, most importantly, can I come with you? Of course, if you’d rather go alone that’s—“

“Mordred,” Merlin interrupts, barely holding back his laughter as the rambling becomes more and more excited. He didn’t think this far, didn’t expect Mordred to even _want_ to accompany him, but he finds that he doesn’t really mind. Maybe this is a way to prevent a future he has feared for so long. “Yes, you’re more than welcome to join me. Actually, I think it’s a good idea, you need someone who keeps you out of trouble.”

The irony isn’t lost on him, and if Mordred’s flat look is anything to go by, he’s not fooling either of them.

Turning serious, he puts down his food and stretches his legs out. “As for Camelot—“ he hesitates, choosing his words carefully. “I don’t think I have it in me to protect Uther Pendragon, but I have many people there whom I hold dear. Some of them might not return that affection any longer, but it doesn’t change how I feel about them, and I don’t want to see them hurt if I can help it.”

“You still believe in your destiny.”

It’s not a question, merely an observation accompanied by a gleam of gentle curiosity in too knowing eyes, and Merlin has to look away. “Yes. Maybe. I learnt a lot about prophecies over the last few months and even though it’s difficult to believe right now that Arthur will ever change his mind about magic—in the end, it’s our choices that shape the future, and I’m not going to risk that by giving up.”

It’s more than he has said to anyone else on the topic, at least if he doesn’t count Kilgharrah. He wonders if Mordred knows of his own destiny; if someone has told a child, or a teenager, that he’s prophesied to destroy what his whole community has been anticipating for years. Trying to prevent it or make him believe that there’s no choice, weight upon weight on shoulders much too young.

For Mordred’s sake, he hopes nobody did, though there’s a small, selfish part that’s silently begging that Merlin doesn’t end up being the one who has to tell him.

Only when Mordred taps his knee does he realise that he got lost in his thoughts, and he smiles apologetically. “Sorry, I’m—just exhausted, really. We should get some sleep.”

There’s a brief flash of disappointment in Mordred’s eyes that only reminds him again of how young he is, and he catches his wrist before he can turn away. “If you still want to accompany me, we can keep talking tomorrow, alright?”

It’s obviously the right thing to say, seeing that Mordred beams at him until he seems to catch himself and quickly tones it down to a regal nod. Merlin has to turn away to hide his amusement and summons his cloak to wrap himself in; maybe this will turn out better than expected.

* * *

Merlin regrets every single choice in his life that has led him here.

Alright, that is probably laying it on a bit thick and just a tad hypocritical, seeing that his silent complaint is directed at the fact that Mordred has been talking for the last hour.

But all Merlin did was ask how he learnt to fight with a sword, which led to a long-winded story that started over three years ago when Mordred met Alvar and the whole thing with Morgana and the Crystal of Neahtid happened. Merlin had mostly forgotten about it if he’s honest, at least ignoring the part where he nearly got Mordred killed.

It’s not even that Mordred is talking a mile per minute, but he has once again barely caught a few hours of sleep and those were full of dreams he’d rather forget about, and even though they’re out of Camelot, Gwynned isn’t _safe_ by any means.

Taranis is lazily circling above them, occasionally disappearing out of sight to hunt something. It’s nearly midday, the late August sun burning down on them with a vengeance and the horses are getting restless.

Even Mordred’s chatter is slowly dying down. “Come on, we should rest for a while. I think I can hear a stream, and it’ll do us some good to get out of the sun.”

Mordred shoots him a grateful look, his shirt clinging to his back, and maybe Merlin should’ve considered that not everyone is used to Arthur Pendragon’s ruthless pace of riding regardless of wind and weather.

When they find a small, shadowed clearing with a stream running through it, they both groan in relief at getting out of the saddle.

They’re silent as they take care of the horses, cool themselves down, and share bread and apples between them. Eventually, Merlin recalls the gist of Mordred’s story though.

“So, you stayed with Alvar and his renegades for some time and after—and with the Druids occasionally. Aren’t you a bit young to be travelling alone? And you still didn’t tell me why you prefer a sword over using magic even when you’re losing,” he asks and yes, alright, two can do the rambling.

Mordred shifts in his place and Merlin can’t tell if he’s flushed from the heat or embarrassment.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he adds softly because the last thing he meant to do was to make him uncomfortable. He simply doesn’t _understand—_ no matter how risky, he would almost always use his magic one way or another to get himself out of a tight spot, and Mordred really had nothing to lose and everything to gain the previous day.

“It’s fine,” Mordred says with a sigh, flicking the stem of his apple into the underbrush. “The problem is that, while my magic in itself is fairly powerful, I can only control it to some extent. It’s very… driven by emotions, and usually only works well when I panic.“

He shrugs and his voice goes so quiet that Merlin has to lean in to understand him. “The Druids tried to teach me to some extent but—most of them have more issues with finding the power, and less with restraining it. On top of that, my magic always had a more… destructive nature, apart from my telepathic talents, though even they can be used to manipulate and harm. I think—they never outright told me, but it’s not exactly in accord with the druidic philosophy, is it?”

Merlin probably stares for a bit longer than he should’ve because Mordred turns his head away, fingers digging into the ground at his sides, but it takes him a moment to work through everything he just heard.

“I’ll teach you.” It’s out before he can reflect on it, but it doesn’t matter; everything Mordred just told him not only hits way too close to Merlin’s own reality back in Ealdor but is also just plain _wrong_. He has a good idea why the Druids were averse to teaching Mordred—obviously, they didn’t have a problem teaching _him_ , and he undoubtedly did things much worse than Mordred; regardless for what cause.

“Don’t make fun of me!” Mordred snaps, his shoulders going rigid while he still won’t look at Merlin.

That throws Merlin off his current train of thought rather rudely, and he frowns. “Why would you think that I’m making fun of you?”

Mordred’s head whips around and his eyes narrow, though the effect of that anger is a bit diminished by the still persistent flush and the way his hair is sticking up in every direction. “You’re _Emrys—_ why would you of all people bother? People only pretend that they’re going to help me if they can gain something from it, and what in the world would I have to offer to someone like you?”

And alright, maybe he could’ve guessed that one but, on a personal level, it’s also slightly hilarious. “Mordred, you—look. I know, I have this great name to show for and admittedly a fair bit of power but I’m also still only a normal person. One who has just lost his home, his family, and his friends, who all presume him dead. A bloody _dragon_ just called me mopey a few weeks ago, my only companion is a raven, and I’m not the most fun to be around right now. But I _swear_ to you that I’m not offering you this for my own gain.”

Truth be told, Kilgharrah will probably be an absolute pain about this but he’d rather not tell Mordred that right now.

Sighing, he runs a hand through his hair and meets Mordred’s eyes. “I don’t expect anything in return, except maybe some company and help with gathering food. I hate hunting,” he adds as an afterthought, eyes flicking to the crossbows lying a few feet away from them. “And, obviously, you can say no or leave whenever I get on your nerves too much,” he finishes, though he realises that he’d quite like him to stay.

Strange how these things turn out sometimes.

Mordred already appears much calmer, his shoulders relaxed and his expression pensive, but he keeps watching Merlin for long moments before he tilts his head and smiles. “Alright.”

“Alright?”

“Yeah.”

“Good,” Merlin says with a grin, plopping back onto the grass and closing his eyes. “So, Alvar turned out to be an arse, huh? Who would’ve guessed.”

Something heavy lands on his stomach, knocking the breath out of him. “Shut up, Emrys,” Mordred says, but there’s laughter in his voice as he dodges the waterskin Merlin sends back at him with a bit more force than strictly necessary.

* * *

They settle into a routine over the following week, using the early and late hours of the day to travel, when the heat isn’t quite so brutal, and spending the middle of the day and evenings practising magic and talking.

Merlin quickly learns that Mordred is as prone to mood-swings as he is these days; one moment, he’ll prattle on about one thing or another, and the next he goes quiet and closed off, seemingly lost in memories. Neither of them pushes when it happens, leaving as much space as is possible when travelling together.

They’re a strange duo, but somehow, it seems to work for the most part.

The most precarious topic quickly turns out to be Mordred’s magic though. Not because he doesn’t listen—he does, remarkably well—but Merlin struggles to explain what comes instinctually to him, and Mordred was not exaggerating when he said that he has a hard time controlling it.

After the third time he nearly sets Merlin’s clothes on fire, he loses his temper for the first time, pushing Mordred, the flames, and the heat away. _Away from him_ , with enough force to send Mordred stumbling and singe his clothes.

He regrets it the moment Mordred lands on his back, the thud sounding loud in the clearing, and he has to clench his eyes shut. “Sorry, I’m—sorry,” he finally forces out, crossing the distance to offer him a hand. “We should probably skip the fire for a while, it’s not my favourite element currently.”

Mordred’s eyes soften, but it only makes Merlin feel worse; he should’ve thought of that beforehand.

The feeling of guilt lessens when he ends up drenched, thrown into trees and to the ground and into bushes, and is nearly crushed by branches, all in the span of a few days. Repeatedly.

It’s a mere coincidence when they finally figure out a way for Mordred to get the metaphorical foot into the door.

They’ve kept the spare horses with them, waiting to come across a larger town to get a good price for them, and they’re just setting up camp for the night when Mordred calls him over. “I think Nightlight got hurt,” he says, and Merlin utterly fails at smothering his laughter.

“You named her Nightlight?” he asks when he catches himself, letting his eyes wander over the pitch-black horse.

Mordred raises his chin and crosses his arms over his chest. “Don’t even try to pretend that you didn’t name yours. Just because we won’t keep them—“

“Alright, alright,” he interrupts, attention caught by the gash that’s running down the flank and knowing Mordred well enough by now to see that this is a discussion with the potential to go on endlessly. “We should heal her, or we’ll get much less when we reach the city tomorrow.”

“Can I try?” Mordred asks, running a hand over her neck while watching her with a worried frown. He must’ve seen the doubt on Merlin’s face though because his eyes turn pleading and way, _way_ too earnest. “It’s not as if I can make it worse, right?”

Actually, he could, rather a lot, and Merlin isn’t that good with healing magic to be certain he could salvage any possible damage. But at the look on Mordred’s face, he also thinks that losing one horse is probably worth not crushing Mordred’s belief in himself, and so he forces a smile and nods.

As usual, Mordred picks up the pronunciation of the spell easily enough, and even though Merlin wants to tell him a hundred things, he bites his tongue and takes a step back, hands twisting behind his back.

The spell works seamlessly on the first try, and Merlin doesn’t know who looks more surprised at the result. There’s a beat of stunned silence, and then Merlin’s nearly barrelled over when Mordred throws his arms around him, all the while bouncing on his feet and shouting “I did it, I did it,” so loudly that Merlin’s left ear is ringing.

He whole-heartedly understands the feeling though and squeezes Mordred tightly before letting go, probably mirroring the bright grin that’s directed at him. “So, a talent for healing, huh? Maybe your magic isn’t that destructive after all?”

If possible, Mordred beams even more at that, and Merlin’s heart stutters in his chest at the realisation that he nearly condemned this _kid—_ because, in the end, that’s what Mordred still _is—_ on the basis of some prophecy.

By the gods, he hopes so very dearly that he won’t be proven a fool.

* * *

If Merlin’s estimation is correct, they’re another four days of relaxed riding away from the coast, and he breathes a sigh of relief when they come across a town on the next day.

A few spells ensure that they don’t look as if they’ve stolen the horses and the weapons, and after a bit of searching, they find someone who makes them a well enough deal. He probably could’ve gotten a better one if he had been inclined, but it’s obvious that Mordred isn’t all that comfortable among so many people and truth be told, Merlin isn’t either right now.

They keep their own horses, a sword and a crossbow each, stock up on some food, and are back in the forest after half a day.

Practising healing magic is, by its very nature, not that easy to accomplish. Neither of them are willing to hurt any living beings for their convenience, and the shallow scrapes and bruises they assemble over the day don’t pose much of a challenge to Mordred.

Merlin tries making up for it by teaching Mordred as much as he knows about healing—magical and non-magical—and just before they reach the coast, he has another idea.

“Try and make something grow,” he tells Mordred when they’re taking a break in the shadows at the bank of a small lake.

Mordred looks at him like he has finally lost his mind, and Merlin rolls his eyes. “A flower, or something small like that. I don’t remember a particular spell right now, but channelling your magic should work. At least it’s worth a try?”

The doubtful expression is still there, but determination bleeds through and Mordred sits up, squaring his shoulders.

Seconds later, there are flowers sprouting all around them, a myriad of colours and smells that makes Merlin’s head spin slightly. It’s also endlessly beautiful, and he lays back as Mordred tips his head back and laughs, fingers brushing through the newly grown life.

That night, Merlin resigns himself to finally facing Kilgharrah. He’s been putting it off the whole time Mordred has been with him, and he can only guess how much it’s going to worsen the lecture.

After they’ve finished their dinner in an unnaturally green clearing, Merlin makes sure that the wards are set and gets up. “I need to take care of something. Nobody can get here but me, and I should be back in half an hour, more or less.”

Mordred tilts his head, watching him curiously, but eventually just nods. It seems too easy, but maybe he’s just projecting, and he tracks back the path to another clearing he picked out earlier.

Kilgharrah doesn’t make him wait long, landing gracefully in front of him. “Hello, young warlock. Is everything well?”

Merlin winces at the hint of concern in Kilgharrah’s voice. Since he left Camelot, they’ve spoken much more often, and he really shouldn’t have put this off for so long. “Yes, everything’s—as good as can be expected, I guess.”

“I wondered if your prince found himself in another spot of trouble,” Kilgharrah says with a tilt of his head, and his eyes narrow slightly.

Shaking his head, Merlin sighs. “No, it’s been mostly quiet around Camelot. Agravaine left the castle at night a few times but it’s not like that’s a crime. Just because I can’t stand the man…”

“Indeed,” is the only answer he gets, but he can hear the question as if Kilgharrah had roared it at him.

Right. He should probably stop stalling, this is getting ridiculous. “I met Mordred about two weeks ago—or well, saved him from a group of bounty hunters, actually,” he says because if he does this, then why not commit fully. “He has been travelling with me.”

He had expected and prepared himself for many reactions, but Kilgharrah lowering his head and letting out a rumbling sigh that sounds like defeat wasn’t one of them. “I told you once already that your belief in the good of everyone might one day be your downfall.”

Gods, but this is so much worse than anger. “He is just a kid and—after all the Druids taught me about prophecies and considering that those concerning me and Arthur have been changing—I can’t judge him on something he might do in some clouded future.”

“You’re playing a dangerous game, young warlock,” Kilgharrah says, and while it’s still not disapproval, not really, Merlin can feel frustration rising in his chest.

“Listen,” he says, fisting a hand into his hair. “I know that the way you perceive the future is—different. But things aren’t set in stone, and even if they were—then he’d end up doing it either way.”

Kilgharrah seems to share his annoyance, his nostrils flaring slightly. “You could always—“

“For fuck’s sake, he’s just a kid! A kid who gives horses ridiculous names and heals any hurt animal we come across, who grows flowers and nearly cries of happiness over the fact that his magic is good for more than destruction, and—“

“You’re _teaching_ him?” Kilgharrah roars, and ah yes, there it is.

Merlin clenches his jaw and squares his shoulders. “Yes. Look—I don’t want to fight with you, you know that. And you also know that I loathe giving you orders, but I’m asking you, as a friend, to neither hurt him nor tell him of his destiny. I don’t think he knows, and if you don’t give me your word to keep it that way, I _will_ order you. I think—no, scratch that, I’m _sure_ that I can keep him from going down that path, and if I don’t—“

A loud crack and a cut-off, strangled noise from behind him makes him whirl around, magic already crackling at his fingertips, but then his eyes fall on a familiar, now very pale face, and he quickly casts a shield instead of a stunning spell.

“Don’t move,” he tells Mordred flatly, closing his eyes for a second before turning back to Kilgharrah. “Do I have your word—well. On not attacking him, at least? I think the rest has just become pointless, anyway.”

Kilgharrah sighs and bows his head. “You know that I rarely, if ever, involve myself in these things, young warlock. But yes, you do have my word.”

Merlin’s shoulders slump in relief and he leans his forehead against Kilgharrah’s snout for a moment, murmuring a quiet, “Thank you,” only for him, before steeling himself and dispelling the shield.

“Mordred, meet Kilgharrah. I’m sure you have a lot of questions, but—“

“You lied to me.” It’s quiet, hurt unmistakable despite the obvious fury in Mordred’s voice, and Merlin takes an actual step back.

To say he’s confused would be an understatement, and he glances at Kilgharrah before turning a raised brow on Mordred. “I did not—“

“Yes, you did!” Mordred shouts, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “Not only did you not tell me, but you said that you didn’t have an ulterior motive for teaching me! Tell me—what is it then?”

Merlin bites his lip, wracking his brain for how to explain this in a way that doesn’t sound horrible. Mordred obviously takes it the wrong way, transferring his glare to Kilgharrah, who appears mostly amused.

Still, he tilts his head in Merlin’s direction, an obvious question, and he appreciates it, he really does, but in the end, he just gestures for him to go on. Better to get it over with, and maybe Kilgharrah can explain it better than—

“You’re destined to enter a dark alliance with Morgana and kill Arthur Pendragon.”

Well, he should’ve known better. “You did _not_ get any better at revealing these kinds of things in a careful manner,” he says with a sigh, but a quick look at Mordred is enough to determine that now really isn’t the time to argue rhetoric. “I think I’ll take it from here. But thank you, truly,” he adds, inclining his head before Kilgharrah takes off.

Mordred is still frozen to his spot, eyes unfocused and hands shaking at his sides, and Merlin runs a hand over his face before approaching him slowly. “Come on, let’s get back to the camp and I promise I’ll explain.”

At his words, Mordred’s shoulders stiffen even further and his expression darkens, but he gives a sharp nod before turning on his heel. Only to stumble over his own feet and nearly crash head-first into a tree.

Merlin keeps a hand underneath his arm, glad when Mordred doesn’t protest. He remembers his own reaction to hearing about his destiny well enough, but he has no idea how it must feel to have… such a horrible one.

No matter how much he disliked Arthur at the beginning, it’s nothing compared to this.

They arrive back at their camp without an incident and Merlin mutters a quick spell to reignite the fire while Mordred plops down on his bedroll, pulling his knees up to his chest.

The short walk was not nearly enough time for Merlin to figure out what to say. “I’m sorry,” he tries, only to wince at how flat it falls. “I really am, but—I did not offer to teach you because of any of this, more the opposite, really—or well. I’m not selling this well, am I?”

He huffs, running a hand through his hair and trying to gather his thoughts. “I did it despite your destiny if that makes sense. After the time I’ve spent with the Druids, I finally understand that the future isn’t set in stone and that it doesn’t do well to dwell on prophecies. My attempts at intervention already led to disasters more than once, and—“

Mordred suddenly sits up straight, staring at him and gesturing wildly. “ _That’s_ why you tried to kill me,” he blurts, his eyes growing wilder by the second. “My strange bond with Morgana, you—even the bloody Druids, of course! Unable to teach me magic, sure—I’m destined to—oh gods—“

Within seconds, Merlin’s kneeling next to him, one hand steady on his shoulder. He knows an impending shock when he sees one, and takes care to speak calmly, “Mordred, listen to me, alright? I know the way people have treated you leads you to believe that Kilgharrah is right but—“

“How come you’re talking to a bloody _dragon_ like it’s the most normal thing anyway? Wasn’t he the one who attacked Camelot?”

The sudden change of topic leaves him reeling for a moment, but he’ll take what he can get right now. “Yes, Uther had him chained under the castle for two decades. As for me—I’m the last Dragonlord?”

“Of course you are,” Mordred says with a sigh, shaking his head and squeezing his eyes shut. “Sorry, I’m just—this is a lot. Everything is so—just—I don’t—“

“Yeah, I think I know what you mean,” Merlin mutters and plops down next to him, leaning against the trunk at their backs. After a moment of consideration, he summons his saddlebag and pulls out a skin of wine he got in the city. “You know what, I wanted to save this for when we arrive in Ynys Gybi, but I’m sure we can get wine there. And if this isn’t a reason to get drunk, then I don’t know what is.”

Mordred smiles weakly and takes the first sip wordlessly, though not without a grimace. “I—thank you, Emrys.”

“For what? Weren’t you just angry at me for—“ He gestures helplessly, unable to sum it up in any sensible way.

“I was, but then I realised that if it was about preventing destiny, you wouldn’t have helped me in the first place, much less tried teaching me magic,” Mordred mutters, the ‘unlike the druids’ obvious in the shadow passing over his face. “Do you really believe that…”

“That you can avoid fulfilling that prophecy?” Merlin finishes for him, handing the wine back.

Mordred nods, turning the skin around in his hands between taking sips.

“Yes. You’re a good person, Mordred, you really are. And seriously—for me, it would be more comforting to believe that my destiny is infallible, because then I wouldn’t be so terrified of messing everything up, but I also want to believe that we’re free to choose who we want to be,” he says, and the honesty of the words is nearly physically painful, but he thinks this might be one of the most important conversations he ever had.

“You’re afraid?” Mordred asks, a note of disbelief in his tone, and of course the little brat would focus on the most uncomfortable part.

Merlin nods anyway. “Of course I am. Told you I’m just a man as any other, didn’t I?” he jokes, nudging his shoulder into Mordred’s. “I got caught for healing Arthur’s bloody horse, of all things. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t be afraid to fuck things up as well if that were you?”

Finally, the smile on Mordred’s face turns genuine, until he breaks into laughter. “I’m—I’m sorry,” he wheezes, trying to catch his breath and breaking into new bouts of laughter whenever he looks at Merlin. “I thought you—that it happened when you did something heroic, saving Prince Arthur or some innocent prisoner but—oh gods.”

“It’s not that funny,” Merlin grumbles, but he’s helpless against the small smile curling his lips at Mordred’s amusement. “He’s a right pain in the arse when things don’t go exactly like he wants them to, and it’s his favourite horse.”

The memory sobers him, the hollow feeling in his chest flaring painfully, and he tries to hide it by drinking more wine. Between him and Mordred, the skin is already half empty, and he can feel warmth start buzzing underneath his skin.

“You miss him, don’t you?” Mordred asks softly, all traces of laughter gone as he leans more firmly against Merlin’s side.

Merlin considers denying it, but really, he wouldn’t fool anyone. Not even himself, not now. “Every single day.”

Mordred nods like he had been expecting that answer, and maybe he had; sometimes, he seems wise beyond his years. “If you believe him to be worth that, I swear to you that I will do anything to never let the future the dragon spoke of come to pass.”

There’s nothing he can do but duck his head to hide the tears brimming in his eyes and wrap an arm around Mordred’s shoulder.

When he’s sure that his voice won’t break, he takes a breath and nudges Mordred slightly. “I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you.”

“’s alright,” Mordred mutters, the vowels slightly slurred, and Merlin takes the wine out of his hands with a soft snort. “Oi,” Mordred protests, lifting his head from Merlin’s shoulder and attempting a glare.

“Let me guess,” Merlin says with a grin, his own limbs heavy with alcohol and exhaustion. “You’ve never had wine once in your life.”

It earns him an indignant look that immediately goes cross-eyed.

“Go to sleep, you great child. And do me a favour—don’t attempt any magic, no matter what, until you’re sober again.”

Somehow, despite everything, Mordred still manages to smirk at him. “Speaking from experience?”

“Gods, you have no idea,” Merlin grins back, but by then, Mordred’s eyes are already closing and his breathing evening out.

He sincerely doubts that this is going to be the end of it, or that they’ll not struggle through whatever the future throws at them, and maybe they’re not going to be fine, but with a bit of luck, they could manage okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have this headcanon that Mordred never really learnt to control his magic. We only ever see him use it on instinct, and when he returns in season 5, barely at all. Even when he joined forces with Morgana, he only ever used spells with her together, so that's where the idea came from. 
> 
> As you can probably tell, I also have a huge soft spot for him, and Merlin needs someone to keep him sane.


	5. to hear your stolen lullabies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from [Taylor Swift - my tears ricochet.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OWbDJFtHl3w) (I swear, this song fits way too well for this fic...)

With summer melting into autumn, Arthur’s already packed schedule quickly turns absolutely stressful, the time of the harvest and all the resulting arguments one of the busiest times of the year.

It never used to bother him much, and not only because his father tended to oversee the logistical side of it himself. For Arthur, it mostly used to mean more focused patrols, less training, and lending the additional hand, while most things around him stayed the same.

As with everything over the last few months, no such luck this year.

After the encounter with the old sorcerer, Arthur had another few dreams consisting of warnings from Merlin, though they were a lot less specific; a meeting between Odin and Lot, his uncle leaving the castle at weird times of the night and, the most recent, Morgana travelling somewhere.

Merlin’s always distant and cold, and Arthur keeps dismissing them as another strange thing he simply has to deal with now.

His nightmares are still persistent, but recently, there’s a new type of dream turning up occasionally. They’re not as devastating as witnessing Merlin’s death over and over, and neither as palpable and disconcerting as the warnings, but strange in their own right.

Arthur never expected to spend so much time mulling over what happens in his sleep, but not only does it happen increasingly often, but he also remembers more and more upon waking up, blurred, distant scenes sharpening as if they’re actual memories.

At first, it was easy enough to dismiss them as a result of what he learnt from Lancelot. Merlin causing branches to fall on bandits, startling horses into throwing off enemy soldiers, fighting immortal knights with a gleaming sword, and even a few occasions when he healed Arthur or other people.

Images that are easy to blame on his imagination and the annoyingly insistent part of himself that wants to understand.

Now, in the weeks leading up to Samhain, their content is getting harder to rationalise. He has seen Merlin facing off sorcerers, destroying magical creatures Arthur has never seen before, and on more than one occasion, witnessed him crossing plans of Morgana.

The most worrying part isn’t even that Arthur has no reason to come up with events he’s never heard about, but that it doesn’t feel like it’s himself being present. It’s as if he’s watching it all from Merlin’s perspective.

He fears he’s slowly going mad, and when he wakes up with the picture of a young girl, dying in his arms, still fresh in his mind as she is sent off on a boat onto a vaguely familiar lake, he decides that this can’t go on any longer.

Obviously, trying to ignore Merlin’s life outside of his immediate attention only leads his mind to come up with ridiculous stories to torment him.

The time until daylight starts filtering through his windows seems to drag on and he’s standing in front of Gaius’ chambers before he can question his decision too much, only just remembering to knock in his haste to get this over with.

Arthur nearly turns and runs three times while he waits for Gaius to answer, and he still jumps when the familiar voice finally reaches him.

When he pushes the door open Gaius freezes briefly upon seeing him, and Arthur can do nothing but stare back helplessly. “My Lord, what can I do for you?”

He swallows, his eyes wandering through the cluttered workshop and lingering on the door that leads— _used_ to lead to Merlin’s room.

Clearing his throat, he takes a deep breath and clenches his hands behind his back. “I was wondering if maybe I could—if you…” Gods but this shouldn’t be this hard, and if Gaius’ steadily rising eyebrow is anything to go by, he agrees with that sentiment.

“Can you tell me about some of the things Merlin did?” he finally presses out, instantly regretting his bluntness when Gaius takes a step back and a dark shadow flickers over his face. “I’m sorry—you don’t have to, obviously, I just—“

“No,” Gaius interrupts him, his expression softening as he exhales a shaky sigh. “It’s alright, he would’ve wanted you to know.”

Arthur bites back a flinch because, up until now, he hasn’t done a very good job at trying to find out more. Quite the opposite really.

“Come, sit,” Gaius says, pushing a stack of books out of the way to make room for Arthur at the table. “Tea?”

He nods and lets his eyes wander through the room once more while Gaius starts boiling the water. It looks as it always does, an organised mess of herbs and cauldrons, books and potion vials and meticulously labelled jars of ingredients cluttering the available surfaces.

It only then occurs to Arthur that Gaius not only lost Merlin as in, his nephew, his _son_ in all but blood, but also his apprentice and assistant. “Gaius, do you have the help you need here?” he asks before he can agonise over pitying himself so much that he lost sight of the most obvious things.

Gaius raises a brow at him but then seems to get the implicated meaning and gives him a small smile. “Thank you, sire, but Gwen has been around to help me out. As long as it’s not too much for her, I think it’s for the best.”

Arthur only nods; if he can’t bring himself to replace Merlin with another servant, he can’t even imagine how it must feel for Gaius.

“If you need her more often or she feels that it’s becoming too much while also caring for my father, I’m sure we can find a solution,” he offers. “I didn’t know she was helping you so much.”

It’s true, and for all intents and purposes, he _should’ve_ known. But even though he now manages to reign in his temper most of the time, he can’t bring himself to let anyone quite so close again, and he can’t remember if he’s even had an actual, personal conversation with anyone since they’ve returned from their trip to the Northern Plains.

“Between your new responsibilities and everything that happened, there’s not much room to keep track of the things that are going on in the castle, Arthur. Don’t be too hard on yourself,” Gaius says, and it’s only now, as he hears the fatherly tone for the first time in ages, that he realises how much he missed it.

“Still, please tell me if you need something,” he says as Gaius sits down across from him, and if his voice comes out a bit rougher than usual, neither of them mentions it.

Gaius pats his hand and nods before he sighs again, his eyes going distant as he stares past Arthur. “Now, Merlin… Well. I can’t claim to know everything he did, and of the things I know, I often lack the specifics.”

“If not for you, how did he know—I don’t know. What to do? How to do it?”

A wistful smile plays across Gaius’ face and he shrugs, wrapping his hands around his goblet. “I helped as much as I could, of course, but he often went to the great dragon for help or figured things out on his own.”

“Wait—did you just say he went to a _dragon_ for help?” Arthur’s not sure he heard that correctly. Of all the things, seriously? “You mean the one I killed?”

There’s the infamous eyebrow again, only accompanied by expectant silence, and Arthur can feel his stomach sink.

“Of course,” he mutters after the moment it takes him to put the pieces together. “I’d passed out, so—“ He can’t believe he’s about to say this out loud, but then again, his whole worldview has recently been taken, put into a box, kicked down several flights of stairs, and was then reinstalled, so maybe it’s not that surprising after all. “Merlin killed the dragon.”

If he hadn’t known Gaius for his whole life, he would’ve missed the minuscule wince and the slight shift in his posture. Unfortunately, he didn’t. “Gaius.”

“Well,” Gaius says, and he looks as if he can’t decide whether to settle on apologetic or proud. “Not exactly. He ordered him to never return to Camelot, or harm anyone else.”

Arthur scoffs. “Only a Dragonlord can…” and then he trails off. “You don’t mean—“

But Gaius’ smile is telling him everything he needs to know, and he closes his eyes for long moments to process that particular revelation. He’d like to believe that he’s already regretting his decision to come here, but he mostly finds himself wanting to know more.

“Why did we ride out and search for the other one then? I get that he didn’t want to reveal himself, but surely he could’ve ordered it away without anyone noticing?” he asks when he finally finds some shreds of his composure. Really, how is it that every answer just throws up more questions when it comes to Merlin?

Gaius sighs and stares down at the table where his fingers draw aimless circles into the worn wood. “Balinor was Merlin’s father, Arthur. Only when he died did Merlin inherit his powers.”

His hand freezes where it’s just reaching for his tea, and his chest clenches painfully. His memories of that time are blurry at best, too many things that happened all at once, but he recalls Merlin’s devastation over the man’s death and, unfortunately, his own reaction.

“You didn’t know, Arthur,” Gaius says softly, covering Arthur’s hand with his as if he knows exactly what’s going through his mind. He probably does.

Arthur shakes his head. “It’s not that. Or well, maybe a bit but—I just can’t imagine, finding your parent after so long just to—“ he breaks off and looks away, trying to swallow around the lump in his throat.

How did he not even notice that his best friend was grieving his father? Granted, Merlin had always been a bit of a riddle to him, and Arthur has come to accept that he also must’ve been better at omitting the truth than Arthur would’ve expected. Still, what does it say about him that he didn’t have the faintest suspicion?

It had been all too easy for Merlin to appease him with claims of being worried about Camelot, and he wonders how many times he missed something so monumental.

“I’m glad he had you,” Arthur finally says when he can breathe again, though his thoughts are still whirring, which is what he blames his following question on. “Why did he never tell me?”

It sounds small even to his own ears, and he doesn’t know why he asks in the first place. The answer is obvious, and he doubts that it’s going to make him feel any better to hear it out loud.

Gaius exhales slowly, drawing his hand back from Arthur’s arm. “Believe me, he wanted to. So many times, and even though I advised him against it more often than I can count, I don’t think it was a lack of trust that kept him from doing so.”

The disbelief must be clear on his face because Gaius shakes his head and pins him with a look, his voice stern and insistent. “He had a lot of trust in you, Arthur. Was he terrified of your father? Absolutely. Did he worry that you wouldn’t want to lie for him? Probably. But in the end—“ he pauses and averts his eyes, his shoulders dropping.

“I think his greatest fear was that he wouldn’t be able to stay at your side. Not only to protect you but as your friend. You meant more to him than anybody else, Arthur, and the more time passed, the more he had to lie, to hide, do things he wasn’t always proud of. I tried to be there for him as much as I could, but believe me when I say that it could not make up for keeping the truth from you.”

Gaius’ eyes are brimming with tears but he’s holding Arthur’s gaze now, his expression open and earnest in a way Arthur hasn’t seen in months, and he can feel the truth of everything that was said sinking into his bones.

He’s absolutely helpless against his own tears and doesn’t have the strength left to swallow them down. It feels like something is unravelling in his chest, weeks upon weeks of buried fears proving to be unfounded, only to be replaced by a deep sense of shame because _he should’ve known_ , should’ve never doubted—

Pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes, he tries to gulp in breath after breath, but he can feel himself trembling as if he’s breaking apart at the seams. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out despite his struggle for air, and he thinks he might be repeating the same thing over and over, but he just needs Gaius to know. _At least Gaius_ because that’s the next best target after Merlin, whom he won’t be ever able to tell and—

A stinging pain in his cheek startles him enough to snap his eyes open, and before he can panic about his utter lack of orientation, something cold gets pressed against his lips and he instinctively swallows the vile content pouring into his mouth.

Warmth spreads through his limbs, the tension in his muscles slowly melting away and leaving him exhausted. Through it all, Gaius’ hand stays steady on Arthur’s shoulder, reminding him of all the times when he was a child and came here for comfort after training sessions or lessons with his father.

The fog in his mind is abating, and he smiles weakly when Gaius hands him a handkerchief without a word. Any other time, he would be mortified for breaking down like this, but there’s too much relief, the tight knot in his chest loosening the slightest bit.

“I really am sorry for what happened, Gaius,” he finally says, his voice heavy and quiet. “I should have tried harder to stop my father, or at least sought you out sooner.”

With a last squeeze, Gaius lets go of him but doesn’t move away. He looks exhausted and like the weight of the world is resting on his shoulders. “You and I both know that there is no arguing with Uther on these matters. And you had every right to take the time you needed.”

Arthur takes a moment to consider this, but the conclusion he reaches isn’t a very comforting one. “But—if Merlin could have magic, quite a lot of it as it seems, and not become corrupted… Then, my father’s laws are wrong,” he says hesitantly, the very words unfamiliar on his tongue. “I know it took me a while, but Merlin was _good_ , the best man I’ve ever known, and his death was nothing but a grave injustice. And if _his_ sentence was unwarranted, then it only makes sense that others were as well.”

Gaius stays quiet for so long that Arthur’s starting to doubt that he’s going to get an answer at all, but then he turns towards Arthur and straightens his shoulders. “Arthur, you need to understand that this—well. You’re more than aware of how treasonous speaking of these things is, and I’m not only scared for my own head. Truth be told, I don’t have much to lose.”

When Arthur’s opens his mouth to protest, Gaius merely shakes his head and smiles. “But you are right. Magic is a tool—not exactly like a sword or a weapon, but it may be used as one. It may also be used to help with simple tasks or to entertain, to heal, to _create_. Just as well, it can be used to commit terrible feats, far beyond what a single man with a sword is capable of. And as with every source of power, it has the potential to corrupt those who possess it.”

It sounds so very logical when it’s put like this but there are still a hundred questions running through his head. “Why not only ban the malicious kind of magic then? And—and how did Morgana end up like… as she did? How is it that I only ever seem to see the destructive side of it?”

Alright, faced with Gaius’ disbelieving eyebrow, he can admit that this might be a bit much at once, but it’s like a whole new side has been revealed to something he’s never so much as considered.

“To start with the easiest question, sire—those using magic for simple or good things don’t tend to dwell in Camelot. But if my memory is not deceiving me, there is the occasional case in court where people get judged for healing their cattle or making their crops grow,” Gaius explains, patient even though it’s fairly obvious now that he mentions it.

Arthur feels a bit like an idiot, but what else is new.

He sighs, but they’re interrupted by the sound of the morning bells.

“Ah, I’m afraid that’s our cue,” Gaius says, but he’s still smiling and puts his hand back on Arthur’s shoulder. “You’re welcome to come back, and I’ll answer your questions as best as I can. For now, you should probably clean up a bit.”

A part of him wants to protest, wants to insist that he’s the prince and if he wants to spend his whole day in the physician chambers to learn as much about magic and Merlin as he can, he bloody well will. But he’s also not ten anymore, so he gives a resigned nod and gets up.

The cold water is a relief against his still heated skin, and it calms his fraying nerves at least a bit. Before he leaves, he stops next to Gaius where he’s bending over one of his many cauldrons. “Thank you, truly. I’m—I know this must be hard for you as well,” he presses out, the admission so much harder now that the strange intimacy of the morning is broken.

Gaius doesn’t smile, but he inclines his head, and his shoulders seem just a little less slumped. “It is my pleasure, sire.”

* * *

Of course, Arthur should’ve expected that just because things are starting to look—not better, exactly, but at least a little less devastating, the world wouldn’t stop for him to sort through what Gaius told him.

Samhain already starts badly when only Leon and Elyan return from a four-men-patrol, delivering a report that Morgana is travelling towards the seas of Meredoc. The next day, a woman arrives from one of the villages, speaking of faceless, screaming creatures that kill everything they touch.

When he rides out with his knights, only to find proof of what they’ve already known, he thinks of what Gaius has told him about magic, and wonders what happened to Morgana to succumb to the lure of power. Wonders if he could’ve saved her if he had paid more attention, asked questions earlier, and if there is even the slightest chance left to get back the kind, principled woman that she used to be.

He doesn’t get time to ponder this either. The creatures attack Camelot as soon as night falls, people from the lower town are streaming into the city, searching for refuge, and they barely manage to light up the torches fast enough to keep most of them alive.

When he finally finds time to talk to Gaius, desperate to hear if there’s nothing else they can do, he hasn’t slept more than ten hours in three days. The fear feels like it has always been there, curling and buzzing underneath his skin together with the cold that just doesn’t seem to leave anymore.

It’s only him, Agravaine, and Gaius in the council chamber, and despite his exhaustion, Arthur doesn’t think that he imagines the tension between the pair. It’s not much of a surprise when he thinks about it, but it tells a lot about his attention over the last few months that he’s only noticing it now.

At least they all seem to be in agreement that they have bigger problems, and he gestures for Gaius to speak as soon as they’re sitting down.

“Sire, I assume that these creatures are Dorocha—the spirits of the dead. Morgana must have torn open the veil to the underworld on Samhain,” Gaius explains, his gaze resting solely on Arthur, and his voice leaves no room for doubt about how serious this is.

The mere idea sends a shiver down his spine, and his grip on the armrest of his chair tightens.

Agravaine finds his voice first. “And how can they be defeated?”

“To open the veil, a life must be given on the Isle of the Blessed. To close it, the same kind of sacrifice must be made, my Lord.”

Silence settles over them but, in the end, Arthur knows that there’s only one possible solution. “Then I will do so,” he says, and he’s glad that his voice doesn’t waver as he feared it would. “I will ride with the knights at first light. Uncle, please give the necessary orders and meet me in my chambers in an hour.”

He leaves the room before either man can protest, and after taking a moment to collect himself, he makes his way up to his fathers’ room.

Seeing Uther has not become any easier over the course of the last year, even less so since Merlin’s execution, but despite everything, he still loves his father. It only makes it all the more painful when Uther holds him back just as he’s about to leave, begging him not to go.

He’s so focused on holding it together that he nearly runs into Guinevere on his way out of the room. They stare at each other for long moments before he exhales roughly.

She says, “Don’t go,” at the same time as he says, “Guinevere,” and for the fraction of a second, it feels like nothing has changed between them.

It has though, and Arthur knows that better than anyone. “I have to, you know I do,” he says quietly, offering a weak smile when she ducks her head. “But—I want you to know… I know things have not been the same between us—“

“You needed time, Arthur. I understand,” she interrupts, warm fingers circling his wrist, and he wishes it would be so easy.

Shaking his head, he covers her hand with his own. “It’s not only that, and I think we both know that. I just—I know I shouldn’t have pushed you away, but despite knowing this, I just _can’t_ …” he breaks off again, clenching his jaw in annoyance at his inability to get the words out. He’s not even sure that he knows what he’s doing.

“I want you to be happy, and I couldn’t do that for you. I’m not sure if—even if I return—if I still can. And I can’t—I don’t _want_ to expect you to wait for me. You deserve better than that,” he says, and even though his heart is clenching at the thought of letting her go, he also feels deep in his bones that it’s the right thing to do.

“I would, you know,” she says after a pause, a sad smile tugging at her lips. “Wait for you. If you knew that it’s going to be alright eventually.”

He sighs and pulls her against his chest, resting his head on hers. “I know, but I don’t.”

She squeezes him tightly and then steps back, hands lingering on his arms. “Be careful,” she says, and then slips out of the door and disappears down the corridor.

At least he’s put something right before he has to sacrifice himself. With one last look back at his fathers’ still form, he leaves the room as well, resigning himself to another night of fighting to keep his people safe.

* * *

With the royal Sigel and the responsibility for the kingdom in Agravaine’s hands, Arthur and the knights leave the castle the next day.

The sky is overcast with dark, rolling clouds and the wind is biting painfully into Arthur’s skin—as if the very world is shuddering at the unnaturalness of what is happening.

Gaius said that daylight should keep the Dorocha away, and Arthur sends a silent prayer to whoever is listening that it’ll hold true.

They ride hard and fast throughout the day, only taking short breaks to let the horses rest, and they’re all silent for the most time, pressure and fear sitting heavy on their shoulders.

All too early the little amount of daylight starts fading as well.

“My Lord, we need to find a place to set up camp soon,” Leon says from behind him, and no matter how much Arthur wants to ride through the night to put an end to this, he knows that they have no choice if they want to make it at all.

“We’re going to rest at the ruins of Daobeth, it might be safer than out in the open,” he answers, urging his horse into a quick trod.

When they finally reach the ruins, night is already falling, and they hurry to start a fire and set up camp. It doesn’t take long for the already too familiar screams of Dorocha to reach them, and they huddle closer together instinctively.

It’s Percy who eventually says what all of them already know. “The firewood won’t last us through the night.”

Arthur grabs a torch before any of the others can react. “I’ll go.”

“I’m coming with you,” Lancelot says immediately, and his tone makes it clear that arguing would be pointless, so Arthur only nods.

Lancelot collects firewood while Arthur keeps a watch on their surroundings, and they’re both tense and listening for every little sound. They’re just walking down a flight of half-crumbled stairs when a Dorocha appears seemingly out of nowhere, charging at Lancelot, and Arthur barely manages to push them both out of its way.

Unfortunately, he drops the torch for that, and even worse, the flame flickers out of existence as soon as it hits the ground.

Pulling Lancelot to his feet, he shouts, “Run!” and drags him after himself, refusing to let go of his arm.

It’s impossible to see further than a few feet in the winding corridors of the ruins, and they’re more stumbling than anything else until they reach a small side chamber. Lancelot slams the door shut behind them, the sound reverberating through the empty room, and Arthur strains his ears for any other sound.

When everything stays silent, they both exhale a breath of relief, slumping against the wall and trying to get their breathing under control.

“I wish Merlin was here,” Lancelot murmurs after minutes, and it sounds as if he didn’t mean for Arthur to hear him, every word laced with so much sorrow that it feels like Arthur’s intruding on something private.

He understands though. “Me too.”

It earns him a small smile, but Lancelot still shakes his head. “I don’t mean because of his magic or—“

“I know,” Arthur interrupts, returning the smile and shrugging a shoulder. “He had a way, despite all his fatalistic pessimism, to make you feel like everything would be alright as long as he’s there.” Under normal circumstances, he never would’ve said this, but considering that he’s going to die, it doesn’t matter all that much.

Lancelot tilts his head and then nods slowly. “Something like that.”

He doesn’t get time to ponder what exactly Lancelot meant if not this. There’s another blood-curling scream just from outside the door, and they freeze on the spot, not daring to take a single breath.

When nothing else happens, Arthur taps Lancelot’s arm and gestures for them to move away from the door, cowering behind a stack of wooden boxes. He’s not sure if hiding will actually do them any good, but he’d be lying if he said that it doesn’t make him feel better.

It’s impossible to tell how much time passes; it could be minutes or hours, the blood racing underneath his skin even as the cold makes him shiver in his armour. A part of him wants to talk—wants to reassure and joke as he would with Merlin in this kind of situation, but the words tie his tongue, fear paralyzing his every thought.

Gods, but he doesn’t want to die; not like this, _not yet._

But regardless of how many times that single thought keeps running through his mind, when a Dorocha finally rushes into the room, he doesn’t hesitate to jump up from his crouched position, making sure to push Lancelot back in the process.

Even less than dying, he wants anyone _else_ to die for him, and he closes his eyes, trying to console himself with the fact that he might see his mother again. And Merlin, always Merlin.

Nothing happens. The cold touch he’s expecting never comes, and he slowly blinks his eyes open, wondering if you maybe just don’t—feel when you die.

But he’s still in the same, run-down room, it’s still freezing and dark, and he’s definitely breathing.

“What—“ he starts, only to break off again because he has no idea how to finish that sentence.

When he turns to Lancelot, he’s pale and shaking, obviously as surprised as Arthur. “It just—disappeared,” he finally breathes, still staring at Arthur as if expecting him to drop dead any second. “Right before it touched you, it vanished. Sire.”

That explains exactly nothing, but Arthur won’t complain about being alive.

A commotion from outside the door that sounds decidedly and blessedly human startles both of them out of their shock, and Arthur doesn’t bother hiding his relieved smile when the door bursts open to reveal the rest of his knights.

“Are you alright?” Leon asks as soon as he sees him, eyes scanning the room before settling on Arthur and Lancelot.

Arthur doesn’t want to linger here any longer than necessary and test his burst of luck. “We are, but let’s get back to the camp. I’d feel better with a fire close to me.”

While they’re walking back, they don’t encounter any more Dorocha, and he’s not sure if it’s only wishful thinking or if the silence really feels less oppressive, the cold less biting. When the rest of the night passes without another scream or attack, he slowly allows hope to grow in his chest.

“It’s like they’ve just—disappeared,” Elyan finally voices over breakfast, and the other knights murmur in agreement.

Lancelot hums. “It doesn’t make sense though, does it? Why would they stop attacking? Gaius said that our only hope is to close the veil.”

All of them are more than aware that Gaius wouldn’t have said so if it wasn’t the only way, but neither of them has a better explanation either.

“We’re still riding for the Isle of the Blessed,” Arthur eventually decides, getting up and sheeting his sword. “If we go through the tunnels of Andor we’ll make it there by dawn.”

The rest of their journey passes fairly uneventful if he ignores their encounter with the Wilddeoren, but even though it reminds him of another quest with Merlin that feels like it happened ages ago, he’d take it over the Dorochas any day. 

Apprehension settles over their group once more when they reach the Isle of the Blessed, climbing out of the small boat one after the other.

Arthur’s not sure what he expected, but the ruins of what appears to have once been a majestic city are not very high on the list. The atmosphere feels charged, at odds with the complete lack of life, and they all creep forward quietly.

The high aisle they’re walking through opens up into a courtyard framed with ancient trees, cobblestone long overgrown and wet from the mist that seems to linger in every corner. There’s an altar situated in the centre, white stone gleaming despite the lack of light, and words his father said long ago come back to him all of a sudden.

_‘The Isle of the Blessed was the centre of magic, full of men and women practising the vilest kind of sorcery, plotting to destroy everything we’ve worked so hard for. The day we finally destroyed that legacy is one of the proudest moments of my life.’_

Now, faced with the relics of what must’ve once been an impressive place, he can’t imagine feeling pride at destroying such a legacy.

Shaking the memory of his sixteen-year-old-self listening eagerly, he lets his eyes wander through the courtyard once more. “I’m definitely no expert, but I don’t think there’s anything—“

A rustle from the other side cuts him off, and they all draw their swords, falling into familiar stances on instinct.

“Who’s there?” he calls, hoping desperately that it’s not Morgana. He only tenses further when there’s another rustle before footsteps echo through the courtyard, drawing closer.

It’s not Morgana. It’s so much _not_ Morgana that Arthur lowers his sword in surprise, staring disbelievingly at the teenager across from him. “Who the hell are you?”

The distance between them makes it difficult to catch a good look of his face, but Arthur’s pretty sure that he can’t be older than sixteen or seventeen. Black curls are framing a pale face and he’s wearing a dark-green cloak—all in all, he seems as unthreatening as the next-best kid from the lower town, if it wasn’t for the place they’re in.

“I mean no harm, Prince Arthur,” the boy says, spreading his hands in front of him and inclining his head slightly. His posture is stiff though and he’s eyeing them all warily, throwing an occasional glance over his shoulder before focusing back on Arthur. “Why did you come here?”

He sounds genuinely curious, and the question throws Arthur off even more.

Gesturing around them, he raises his eyebrows. “To close the veil?” It comes out more as a question than he intended, and he quickly pushes on. “What about you? This is not really a place for children.”

“I’m not a child,” the boy snaps, drawing himself up and crossing his arms over his chest. “And the veil is already closed, so you can leave.”

Arthur’s lips twitch at the indignation and blatant disrespect and gods, Merlin probably would’ve adored the boy. There are more pressing questions though and he forces himself to focus. “How? No offence but—I was told that is only possible if a life is paid. But you look very alive and not like you’re in the habit of sacrificing people.”

The boy tilts his head like he’s considering if he should take offence, but eventually, he shuffles his feet and sighs. “It’s—complicated. Em—my master managed to close it.”

“Your master?” Arthur asks with a frown, and a glance at his knights only reveals another four sets of confused expressions. “Is he a sorcerer? Wait—are _you_ a sorcerer?”

It comes out sharper than intended, and Arthur instantly regrets it when he catches the answering flinch.

There’s a pause in which the boy visibly steels himself, and then he meets Arthur’s gaze with nothing but resolve. “Yes. We’ve closed the veil, which, you’re welcome, by the way. And as I already told you, we mean no harm but if you try to attack us, I will not hesitate to make sure that you won’t succeed.”

It’s a bit like being threatened by Merlin—before the whole magic-revelation, that is, but Arthur’s also certain that the boy means it.

“We won’t,” he promises, lowering his sword completely, and then he doesn’t know what else to add. “We—I thank you, for bringing peace back to my land. Consider me letting you go your reward.”

And alright, it probably came out very stiff, but he’s still new to this whole don’t-flip-out-about-magic-thing, his knights are witnessing every word, and Arthur is _tired_.

The boy watches him for long moments before he gives a slow nod. “Good. Will you leave then? I’m not going to turn my back on a bunch of Camelot knights.”

That’s probably fair, but Arthur still has to bite back a wince as well as the feeling of offence. Sheeting his sword, he gestures for his knights to do the same. “We will. Thank you again, truly. Will you tell me your name?”

“I’d rather not,” the boy says, and no further answer is coming forth, only a small smirk playing around his lips.

After long, tense seconds, Arthur turns and nods for his knights to leave, the sensation of eyes following them all the way back to the boat burning on his neck.

* * *

“There was a boy at the Isle.”

Arthur’s sitting in front of the fireplace in Gaius’ workshop, a goblet of wine in his hand while he’s staring into the flames. He told the council that the veil was closed when they arrived without a trace of anyone, but he hopes that Gaius might offer him some insight on the all-around confusing interaction.

Gaius is sitting next to him, legs stretched out and watching Arthur. “A boy?”

“More a teenager, really. I felt like I’ve seen him before but—anyway. He said that his master closed the veil, but it didn’t sound like he actually sacrificed himself. Or anyone else, for that matter,” he explains, tapping his ring against the cool goblet in his hand. “Is that possible, do you think? With magic?”

“Not that I know of,” Gaius says, his brows furrowing in contemplation. “I don’t think even Merlin would’ve been able to, though if anyone could have, it would’ve been him.”

It’s still strange, thinking of Merlin as powerful enough to defy the very laws of nature. He draws his bottom lip between his teeth, wondering for the umpteenth time if he should ask what has been nagging at him since his dreams started.

“Do you think that there’s a chance he survived?” he finally murmurs, the words barely more than a whisper, but he can hear the desperate hopefulness as clearly as if he spelt it out.

Gaius doesn’t flinch or startle, but his eyes are soft and sad when they settle on him. “I wish I did,” he says, voice heavy with regret. “But for all his power and prophesied future, Merlin was still a man like any other.”

By all means, it shouldn’t feel like another, physical blow but Arthur’s chest still clenches, and he runs a hand over his face in an attempt to hide his disappointment.

“If I may ask, what brought this on?” Gaius asks after a few moments, and Arthur should’ve probably expected that this wouldn’t go without question.

Seeing that he meant to talk about this anyway, he sighs and steels himself. “I’ve been having dreams,” he starts, keeping his eyes fixed on the fire. “But they’re—strange. Some of them are like warnings, others like memories, but they feel… different. More real.”

“And they’re always about Merlin?” Gaius asks, shifting in his chair, but he sounds mostly curious.

Arthur nods, chancing a glance at him. “It’s—it’s not like Morgana, right?” he can’t help but ask, the grip on his goblet tightening and his heartbeat speeding up.

“I doubt it,” Gaius says. “What kind of warnings?”

“Well, it’s mostly… Like intel on enemies. It’s like he’s talking to me, telling me about what Lot or Odin are doing, about border skirmishes. One was about Agravaine supposedly leaving the castle at night sometimes.”

Gaius hums. “No, I don’t think it’s anything like Morgana’s talents as a seer. But your subconsciousness may throw together memories and circumstances of your life in an attempt to substitute for the loss.”

If that’s the case, Arthur thinks it’s doing a rather poor job with its imitation of Merlin, but he keeps that to himself. “Gaius… What happened to Morgana? It just—it happened so suddenly.”

“Oh, Arthur,” Gaius says with a sigh, suddenly sounding very tired. “Morgana changed long before she displayed it openly.”

Sitting up straighter, he turns in his chair and frowns. “What do you mean?”

“This won’t be nice for you to hear,” Gaius warns, offering him the jug of wine from the table between them. “Are you sure you want to know?”

It’s not said condescendingly, and Arthur can hear the honest worry for himself, but there’s no doubt in his mind about this. “Yes, please—I need to know.”

“The first time Morgana plotted to kill Uther was after Gwen’s father was executed.”

Arthur chokes on the sip of wine he just took, but his heart is racing for completely unrelated reasons. “That was over five years ago!” he exclaims as soon as he can breathe again, and a part of him is expecting Gaius to laugh and tell him that it was a bad joke.

Instead, Gaius only smiles sadly. “If it is any consolation, she changed her mind at the last moment, and because Merlin found out and knocked out several of her accomplice’s men, she managed to kill the last one herself.”

And gods, Arthur remembers that. Morgana’s fury at Uther for accusing Tom of consorting with a sorcerer, both of them fighting relentlessly until Tom tried to escape the cells. His father locking Morgana in the dungeons for a night and how they made up, riding out to her father’s grave, only to be attacked. He had been furious himself, but after the attempt on his fathers’ life, he didn’t pay it much more mind.

“She had magic even back then?” he finally asks, trying to figure out if there were any signs he could’ve picked up on beside her nightmares.

“It’s complicated—at the time, she’d only just started to become aware of her powers and was mostly scared. The incident was more a reaction to the injustice done to her friend than any desire for power for herself,” Gaius explains, and even though it sounds nearly clinical, there’s sadness and regret etched into every line of his face.

Arthur only nods and gestures for Gaius to go on.

“After that, nothing happened for a while, until Morgause came to Camelot,” Gaius goes on, a faraway look in his eyes. “I think the both of them stayed in contact, and even though I’m not sure how much she was involved herself, there was a reason that Morgana was the only one unaffected by the sleeping charm cast on Camelot when the Knights of Medir attacked the castle.”

“So, all this time,” Arthur whispers, his voice hoarse and muffled as he runs a hand over his face. “She wasn’t kidnapped, was she? And when she came back…” He trails off, casting his mind back over all the things that happened in the year before Morgana’s betrayal was revealed to everyone.

“I’m sorry,” Gaius says, his head bowed while his hands turn his goblet restlessly.

As much as he tries, Arthur still can’t wrap his head around it. “Why though? Why would she turn so—so violent and ruthless?” he asks, the image of her when she’d claimed the throne, eyes full of hatred, still fresh in his mind despite all the time that has passed.

Gaius sighs, the sound so weary and tired that Arthur nearly regrets asking. “There is no easy answer to that, I’m afraid. Fear, feeling left alone, a deep sense of betrayal because Uther kept the truth from her for so long, and probably a good amount of manipulation on Morgause’s part. I think at first, she merely wanted revenge on Uther, but when she found out that he’s her father and she has a claim on the throne—“

“But—“ Arthur interrupts, shaking his head in a fruitless attempt to gather his thoughts. “Did she try to hurt me as well? I mean—am I correct to assume that my fathers’ first signs of madness two years ago were also her doing?”

“Arthur—“

“Please,” he begs, and he doesn’t even care for how desperate he sounds, doesn’t care that all this knowledge will most likely only hurt him more.

There’s a beat of silence before Gaius’ shoulders slump. “Yes, that was her doing. Merlin discovered the source, and later followed her when she met with Morgause, just before Cenred and Morgause attacked Camelot for the first time, with Morgana’s help from the inside.” 

The following pause is just long enough for the implications to sink in—the undead, raised within the castle, and how nobody had an idea that it wasn’t Morgana who saved, but nearly condemned them. Nobody but Merlin and Gaius, apparently.

“I wish I could say that she never tried to hurt you, but—” Gaius goes on, though he’s speaking slowly as if the words pain him. “When you rescued Elyan for Gwen, it was a plot to lure you into a trap by her and Morgause. When you went to the Perilous Lands in your quest to prove yourself, she gifted you with a bracelet that was supposed to drain the life out of you. It was she who planted the first poultice in your chambers to get rid of Gwen. Her fear turned into hatred, Arthur, and a desire for power to not only change the life for those of her kind but to take revenge.”

Arthur’s throat is dry and he can hear the blood rushing in his ears as more and more anger rises in his chest the longer he thinks about it. “And all this time, it was Merlin who saved me. He knew, _you_ knew.” It’s not a question, and his voice sounds strangely flat and detached.

Turning his head to finally look at Gaius, he narrows his eyes, his hand clenching around his goblet. “Why is it that nobody in this bloody castle seems to trust me with _anything_? Did Morgana really believe I’d let my father execute her? Did Merlin? Did none of you ever consider that I might want to know what’s happening to my friends, to _myself_?”

Deep down, he knows that he’s being unfair, that he has no way to understand how it must feel to fear for your life because of something you can’t help. But it also hurts, it hurts so very much to realise that the people he’d considered closest to himself didn’t have as much faith in him as he had for them.

He doesn’t even want to start on the bitterness that keeps growing with every new piece of information on all the achievements that aren’t really his own. How is he supposed to rule a kingdom if more than half of the things he believed to be true are lies?

Gaius doesn’t say anything, but when his hand squeezes Arthur’s shoulder, all the fight drains out of him, leaving only bone-deep exhaustion and hurt behind.

Still, his mind keeps running over all the things Gaius told him, and eventually, he stumbles over another thing that doesn’t make sense to him. “Did you say that Merlin saved my father as well? Why would he do that? Not that I’m not glad, but—“ he gestures helplessly and hopes that Gaius just understands. If it was this easy for Morgana to turn on Uther, Merlin should’ve had even fewer inhibitions to just not intervene in any plots against the king, right?

“For you, Arthur,” Gaius says simply, and Arthur can feel his eyes boring into the side of his head.

He doesn’t understand, and merely meets Gaius’ eyes in silent question.

“Merlin might’ve had many reasons to want Uther dead, but he valued you more, and he knew that despite his many faults, you love your father. He didn’t want to see you suffer. Though I should add that he was also wary what it would do to you if you lost your father because of magic,” Gaius explains patiently, and he squeezes Arthur’s shoulder once more before he withdraws his hand.

The sudden swell of affection would’ve brought him to his knees if he wasn’t sitting, and he clenches his eyes shut and grinds his teeth to not start crying on Gaius again. “I’m sorry,” he says when he’s sure his voice won’t break. “I shouldn’t have—“

“No Arthur,” Gaius interrupts. “No matter how justified and logical Merlin’s reasons for keeping the truth from you, you still have every right to struggle with these revelations. I’m not saying you should hold it against him, but don’t make this harder by beating yourself up over something that is only human.”

He takes a measured breath and bows his head. “Right,” he murmurs, biting the insides of his cheeks to centre himself. “I—thank you, Gaius. I think I’m going to retire for the night.”

It’s impossible to miss the worried frown on Gaius’ face but thankfully, he doesn’t try to stop Arthur as he leaves his chambers.

Only when he finally lies in his bed, still replaying everything that Gaius told him, does he realise that the stories of Merlin saving his father from Morgana’s plots are worryingly close to some of the events from his dreams.

* * *

His father is dying. It’s his birthday and he’s kneeling on the cold floor of the chambers, his father’s limp body in his arms and his last words echoing through Arthur’s head over and over, and his father is dying.

Arthur wants to scream and shout, cry for help and kill whoever is responsible, but his father is dying and he’s barely able to keep his eyes open.

His father is dying and Arthur is helpless, unable to do anything about it, unable to comprehend it, unable to shake the knowledge that now he’s well and truly alone. Unable to search out the one person he wants to see right now because Merlin isn’t here anymore, and he has no idea how he’s going to survive this without him.

Everything that follows barely gets through to him. Gaius says there’s nothing he can do, and when Arthur begs him to find a sorcerer to help, the anguished expression is enough for him to know that there’s not a single person with magic who would help Uther Pendragon. Even through his grief, he can’t find it in himself to blame them.

His father dies a week later. Arthur’s throat feels clogged up no matter what he’s doing, no amount of hitting things or hiding away or shouting at people who don’t deserve it helps, and his hands are trembling whenever he so much as thinks about all the responsibility resting on his shoulders now.

Through it all, the only thing that feels real is the desperate longing for his friend. For Merlin to just be there, a silent presence and an encouraging word and that unwavering belief that Arthur can get through this.

When the week of mourning has passed and Arthur is crowned, when the people are shouting “Long live the King!” with hope and pride shining in their eyes, he only feels hollow and cold, his eyes searching the crowd for someone who hasn’t been there in a long time.

And Arthur finally understands that Merlin was much more than a friend, more than a servant or destiny or the prophesied warlock to rule beside him. He doesn’t know if he should laugh or cry at realising that he’s in love with a dead man.

The gods bless his father for beating into him from his earliest childhood how to hide his every emotion. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur really can't catch a break huh? Also, there will eventually be an explanation for how the veil was closed. If you have suspicions, I'd be thrilled to hear them though. ❤️
> 
> Only the first part of this chapter is beta-read, so I apologize if there are any mistakes!


	6. I didn't want to have to haunt you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your feedback! ❤️

“I swear, some days I wonder if you’re aware of life outside of books.”

Merlin jumps and glares at Mordred, who’s standing in the doorway of his room with an expression somewhere between smug and exasperated. “If you’re planning to ask me to train sword-fighting with you again…” he says, narrowing his eyes in suspicion and ignoring the answering huff.

“You never know when you’re going to need it,” Mordred quips, the argument one Merlin has heard way too many times over the last few months. “But no, that’s not why I’m here. Though I did save your life, so you could show your gratitude by teaching me the few things you’ve picked up.”

He rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “I’m _immortal._ It’s literally impossible for anyone to save my life.”

Mordred sighs, like _he’s_ the long-suffering one between them, and walks over to the desk Merlin’s sitting at to flop into the empty chair across from him. “Details. Who knows what would’ve happened if—“

“Mordred, why are you here?” Merlin interrupts, struggling to keep the amusement out of his voice. “Not that I don’t appreciate your company or anything, but I was rather in the middle of something.”

As soon as Mordred sits down, Taranis leaves his spot by the window to settle on his shoulder and nuzzle his cheek. Merlin thinks it’s rather unfair that his familiar is so fond of the kid that made it his life-mission to annoy him to his impossible death.

“There’s a celebration tonight and we’re invited—“

Merlin groans and lets his head drop onto the book he was reading. “They want me there because I’m Emrys, for inspiring speeches and a sense of hope and—and all that rot.”

“No! It’s a normal invitation, not—“

“They forced me to accept a room in the castle regardless of how many times I insisted that I’d be completely fine with a tent. Gifts keep appearing on my doorstep. I get weekly requests to participate in rituals, and it took me a full week to convince everyone that I don’t need a bloody servant, even though literally nobody else has one,” he rants, raising his head for the sole purpose of glaring at Mordred’s unperturbed expression.

Seriously, as much as he loves how the magical community on Ynys Gybi is still thriving, the amount of reverence some of these people are showing him is nothing but ridiculous. If it wasn’t for the vast amount of knowledge, the connections he’s making, and the safety of the place, he probably would’ve fled after a week.

When Mordred simply watches him with that silent expectancy he does so well, he runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “What even is the occasion? I didn’t forget about another important festival, did I?”

“No, there aren’t that many after Yule,” Mordred says, a brief smile flashing over his face, but then he shifts uncomfortably and averts his eyes. “It’s—well. A celebration of Uther’s death?”

It takes a few moments for that to sink in, but even when it does, Merlin can only stare at him. “That’s—I mean—okay,” he mutters, drawing a deep breath against the lingering guilt and trying to school his expression into something neutral.

Mordred’s watching him again, his head tilted slightly. “If it bothers you so much, why didn’t you save him?”

If he’s honest, he expected that question a month ago, but he’s still not all that sure how to explain it. “I couldn’t care less that Uther is dead, and I understand perfectly why people would celebrate it. It’s just—it feels… wrong, on a personal level, to me.”

“Because you think that Arthur would resent you for it? Even after his father murdered you?”

“No!” he snaps before he can stop himself, and then exhales a measured breath. “Sorry, it’s not your fault. Look—even though I’m far from mourning his death or regretting that I didn’t try to save him, I still know that it must be hard for Arthur. It would feel like I’m taking pleasure in his grief.”

Mordred nods slowly, mulling the words over before he shrugs. “You can be sorry for a friend and still be happy that a tyrant is dead. If it makes you feel better, see it as a celebration of Arthur becoming the King of Camelot, and a potential end to our fear. Not to mention that most people in your place would’ve rather helped the whole thing along than staying out of it, much less consider saving him, so stop blaming yourself already.” 

“Sometimes, you’re scarily smart,” Merlin says with a small smile, and then shakes his head. “Only to turn around and try to convince some of the Catha to learn sword-fighting, stay awake for three days because some kid told you it could be an enlightening experience, or—“

“Alright, alright,” Mordred interrupts, failing to hide his amusement behind a scowl. “I get it, one compliment requires at least three insults. Now stop stalling and come outside.”

Thankfully, Merlin’s saved from answering by a tapping sound coming from his window. Waving a hand to open it, he smiles when he recognises Iseldir’s crow the moment it flies into the room, and carefully takes the letter from its leg.

> _Dear Emrys,_
> 
> _I hope you and Mordred are doing well, and still enjoying your time on Ynys Gybi. We’re very thankful for the supplies you’ve sent us, but I once again have to tell you that it is not necessary—although the fabrics will be helpful throughout the winter. We are much indebted._
> 
> _But I’m writing to you for different reasons today. Last night, a man named Julius Borden broke into our camp and stole an artefact we have been guarding for a long time. While we caught him before he escaped, he took one of the children as a hostage, and a life is worth more than any artefact._
> 
> _Still, I feel that this does concern you on a personal level; the artefact is one of three pieces that make up the key to the Tomb of Ashkanar. We are certain that Borden already was in possession of the second one, and is now on his way to Camelot, where the final piece is kept in the vaults._
> 
> _The legends say that the Tomb of Ashkanar harbours a dragon egg. I don’t doubt that Borden will eventually succeed in his mission to unite the three pieces, and I fear what he plans with a creature like that._
> 
> _As any further information is very sensitive, I propose that you’ll come to visit us. We will provide you with the necessary directions and warnings if you decide to intervene. Everything else, you should be able to keep track of on your own._
> 
> _Best regards,_
> 
> _Iseldir_

Merlin reads the letter twice before handing it to Mordred, summoning his bag to himself and starting to gather clothes and supplies.

“So, when do we leave?” Mordred asks just as he’s taking the crystal out of its hiding place.

“I need to talk to Kilgharrah, it’s easier if he takes us back to Camelot. I think tomorrow should be fine, depending on what I can scry. I’ll be damned if I let some bastard who threatens children get his hands on the last dragon egg,” he answers, flicking a hand to let his clothes sort themselves out. “So, careful on that wine tonight.”

Mordred snorts but gets up from the chair, ducking to avoid the bedroll that’s flying through the room. “I’m going to pack. You probably don’t want anyone else to know what we’re doing?”

He hesitates for a moment but quickly shakes his head. “No, I’d rather not. I’ll come around for a bit later, and if anyone asks, we’re just visiting Iseldir’s camp for a week. We have enough money to stay in a tavern for a few nights if we have to.”

“Fighting bounty hunters and bandits, rescuing knights, princes, and dragons—it never does get boring with you, does it?” Mordred laughs, already standing in the doorway but grinning back at him.

It’s enough to ease some of the tension in Merlin’s back. “All part of my charm.”

* * *

Merlin wakes with a faint pounding behind his eyes and a dry throat, his body aching like it did the one time he’d tried to find the extent of his magic. He deliberately keeps his eyes closed and curses Mordred for dragging him along into the festive mood last night.

To be fair, he did have a lot of fun, and there’s only a vague sense of guilt still lingering in his chest. It has been over a month since Uther’s death, and he’d be the last to not understand the deep relief that came with his demise.

Ynys Gybi is a strange place, and even after all the time they’ve been living here, Merlin’s still not always sure what to make of it. It’s a conglomerate of people from all over Albion, living in the half-crumbling castle or huts and tents around it, most of it held together by magic alone.

There’s no real hierarchy or rank, everyone knows each other at least from sight, and wards keep the place as much of a secret as is possible, cutting them off from the mainland more effectively than any body of water ever could.

Sometimes, Merlin feels like he has stepped out of reality, and he has to remind himself that there’s a world beyond what feels like safety and a cage in equal measures.

Ironically, the latter feeling has been getting worse since Uther’s death. Even here, a place that could easily be a haven with the sea surrounding him and magic dancing in the air, the pressure of destiny stays inescapable. It’s everywhere—in the weeks it took him to get people to stop bowing to him, in the looks he receives and the stories he’s told, laced with expectations and hope, and how people turn to him for guidance.

To some degree, he has grown used to it, but sometimes, he catches himself missing the anonymity Camelot used to allow him.

The thought finally manages to dispel the lingering exhaustion, and he blinks his eyes open with a groan. Soft, blueish morning light is pouring through the open windows, he can hear waves crashing against the rocky shore in the distance, and a sense of peace settles in his chest. Maybe it’s not his small chamber adjourning Gaius’ workshop, but it’s still a sort of home.

Taranis lands on his knee then, giving a soft caw, and Merlin runs a finger over his head. “Come on, up we get. I bet that Mordred is still half-dead, and we have a long day ahead of us. Not to mention that Kilgharrah is going to be insufferable if we’re making him wait.”

As expected, it takes a fair bit of magic in the form of vanishing blankets and shaking the bed to raise Mordred from his slumber, but Merlin is nothing if not experienced with that particular task. He ignores the grumbling and complaints but hands him one of the hangover-potions Gaius has taught him when they’re sharing breakfast.

“I’m still not sure that Kilgharrah won’t chuck me off at the first convenient instance,” Mordred mutters as they’re walking down to the beach, the paths blessedly empty as every sane person is probably still nursing their hangovers.

Merlin shrugs and smirks at him. “Then you’ll just have to make sure to hold on tight, won’t you?”

The resulting grumble is indecipherable, and he merely pats Mordred’s shoulder in response. Granted, Kilgharrah is by no means fond of Mordred, but Merlin trusts him to keep his promise. Apart from that, he pretends to be blissfully ignorant of the wariness between the two of them when they meet Kilgharrah at the spot Merlin usually calls him to.

“Can you bring us to the clearing close to the camp?” he asks, pulling himself onto the scaly back and offering Mordred a hand to do the same.

Kilgharrah huffs a breath. “Of course, young warlock. Anything else?”

“Don’t pretend you’re not excited at the prospect of finding the egg, and I recall more than one occasion where you offered your services,” Merlin quips back, though he’s not sure how much of it reaches Kilgharrah over the roaring wind as he takes off.

Mordred’s arms are tight around his waist, and he resigns himself to another set of bruises when they’re done.

Since the first time that Mordred climbed on Kilgharrah’s back, he developed an intense dislike for this method of travelling. But while Merlin has got rather good at the transportation spell, it takes a lot of energy to take someone along over long distances, and he’s not ready yet to let Mordred try it on his own; not if Kilgharrah is an option, at least.

In spite of the warming charm he cast on them, he’s stiff and shivering when Kilgharrah touches down in the familiar clearing.

“I’ll let you know as soon as I have news. Last I checked, Borden was still on his way to Camelot, so we should have a few days before he starts towards the Tomb of Ashkanar,” he says, and smiles when Kilgharrah bows his head, blowing a gust of warm breath over them that instantly dispels any discomfort.

The three days they’re staying in the camp pass quickly as they catch up with the Druids. Merlin makes sure that they’re doing alright despite the low temperatures, much to Iseldir’s amusement, and receives all the information he’s going to need to retrieve the egg from the tomb.

The realisation that the cave his father used to live in is the hidden pathway to the tomb is bittersweet, and he struggles with the decision to ambush Borden there.

As usual, Mordred somehow picks up on his reluctance when they’re talking it over the night before they’re set to leave. “We can just wait for him behind the cave. He seems to know where he has to go, and it lowers the chances of running into the knights, as long as they don’t catch up with him beforehand. It’s unlikely that they’ll find their way through the cave on their own.”

It’s a good idea, actually. Merlin would rather avoid dealing with Arthur and the others because it doesn’t take a genius—or spying—to figure out why _they_ are after the egg. If it comes down to it, he’d immobilise them for long enough to keep them as far away from it as he’s planning to do with Borden, but he’s not very fond of the idea of using his magic against Arthur.

“We could even make sure that they’ll come across Borden after we’re gone,” he muses, a plan taking shape in his mind. “Arthur’s never going to believe him that he was unsuccessful, and it might keep them from continuing their search.”

Mordred smirks, poking the fire between them absent-mindedly. “You’d have to disguise yourself in that case though. Otherwise, his description of you might make them suspicious about you—well, being alive.”

It’s Merlin’s turn to smirk and he tilts his head. “Ah, but I found this marvellous spell in one of the books Finna gave me—“

“Of course you did.”

“Shut up, you’re going to like this,” Merlin laughs, throwing a bit of grass at Mordred that he easily deflects with a twitch of his fingers. It’s rather astounding how well Mordred’s progressing with his magic ever since he got a better grasp on it through his talent at healing—and it’s situations like these that Merlin regrets it just the tiniest bit.

Mordred sighs, leaning back on his hands and stretching his legs out. “What did the great books say then?”

Rolling his eyes, he uses his own magic to knock Mordred’s hands out from underneath him, causing him to land flat on his back. “It’s a face-blindness spell. Basically, anyone who doesn’t know who we are will be unable to recall how we look apart from generic attributes—just enough for people to put it down to confusion or bad memory. For example, Arthur would still recognise me as myself, but probably not if he sees me as an old man, considering that his memory of that is only brief and most likely faded by now.”

“That’s rather brilliant,” Mordred says with a nod. “Probably better if you’re not physically eighty when trying to infiltrate a booby-trapped tower.”

“Exactly my thoughts. I think I’ve even managed to tweak it enough that I can apply it permanently, which is going to be useful for whenever we’re not at Ynys Gybi or a Druid camp.”

They puzzle out a few more details until it’s time to sleep. Merlin checks once more that Borden’s still on the right track and hasn’t been caught by the knights yet, and finally allows himself a bit of excitement when he curls up on his bedroll in a corner of the cave the Druids are sleeping in.

The first part of their plan goes remarkably well. After they’ve said their goodbyes, Merlin teleports them both into his fathers’ late cave, and they pick their way through to the other side. They only walk a short distance until they find a hiding spot, a crook in the rocks that shields them from view and the biting wind.

Borden lets them wait for a while, but between magic to keep them warm and the food Iseldir and Ambika insisted they take with them, it’s as comfortable as it can possibly be.

It’s late afternoon when Borden finally enters the cave, and Merlin hurries to pack away the crystal and the few supplies they’ve unpacked. “Right, I’m going to knock him out and bring him here,” he mutters, ignoring how Mordred rolls his eyes at the umpteenth repetition.

The man makes it very easy, stopping short just three steps out of the waterfall and staring at the looming tower. Merlin shakes his head in mock-disappointment as he jogs over to the crumpled form after hitting him with a stunning spell.

He binds his hands and feet for good measure, unwilling to take any chances, and levitates him back to where Mordred’s waiting with a grin.

Right, now the more complicated part. “You’re going to wait here and keep an eye on him,” he says as offhandedly as possible while searching Borden’s pockets, making a small noise of satisfaction when he finds the triskelion.

His moment of triumph doesn’t last long. “I’m _not_ staying behind. You can just—spell him asleep or something! You have no idea what’s going to happen in that tower.”

Merlin closes his eyes and breathes deeply before turning around to face Mordred. “Exactly, and it’s much easier if I only have to look after myself. I’m also a bit harder to kill than you, _and_ I’d feel better if you kept an eye on him and any other potential visitors. If the knights turn up, you can warn me,” he says, tapping a finger against his temple to undermine that last point.

None of it is a lie, and if the grimace Mordred pulls is anything to go by, he’s realising that as well. It wouldn’t be Mordred if he didn’t cross his arms over his chest anyway, narrowing his eyes. “Don’t believe I don’t know that you’re only telling me this now because otherwise, I would’ve found perfectly good arguments against it.”

He doesn’t bother hiding his grin. “Yes, well, but we _don’t_ have that time right now. If it makes you happy, we can return once I’ve disabled the traps and nobody is searching for the last dragon egg.”

“You know, you can’t just use your immortality as an excuse whenever it’s convenient and ignore it the rest of the time, right?” Mordred grumbles, but he’s flopping down against a rock across from Borden, so Merlin still counts it as a win.

Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he shrugs. “Watch me.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer and, with the triskelion held tightly in his hand, teleports himself close to the tower.

With Iseldir’s warnings still ringing in his head and his heart racing in anticipation, he steps up to the door and, with trembling hands, fits the triskelion into the designated place. As soon as it starts turning, he takes a quick step back, something he’s very grateful for when white smoke starts pouring seemingly out of nowhere as the door swings open.

Covering his mouth with the hood of his cloak, he mutters a spell to evaporate what he’s pretty sure would _not_ be healthy to inhale. After a few extra seconds just to be sure, he conjures a ball of light and steps into the dark corridor.

The air is stale and cold, dust dancing in the faint light, but Merlin is too wary of further traps to pay the details of his surroundings much mind. Nothing happens though, and when he enters an opulent hall lined with carved columns, all rational thought deserts him.

In the very centre, a white egg in the shape of a teardrop is sitting on a pedestal, gleaming in the faint sunlight that’s streaming through the high windows. He grazes his fingertips reverently over the smooth surface and can feel tears prickling in his eyes.

It’s only at the last moment that he thinks that this is too easy. A study of his surroundings doesn’t reveal any obvious traps or potential triggers, and he ponders his options.

Teleporting would most likely work, but he’s reluctant to test its effects on the egg, and he can’t think of a worthy alternative right now.

He heaves a sigh and casts a strong shield around himself and the egg, hoping that maybe, just maybe, he’ll get lucky for once and won’t need it.

Of course, it’s never that simple. As soon as he carefully lifts the egg from its resting place, the ground starts shaking underneath his feet and the walls begin to crumble.

He holds the egg against his chest and runs, sparing a thought to congratulate himself on his foresight when large chunks of stone and rubble rain down all around him, bouncing off his shield. Gaius would be so proud.

By some miracle, both he and the egg make it out of the collapsing tower without a scratch, and he doesn’t stop running until there’s a very safe distance between him and the tower.

Still panting, he turns and watches as the majestic building is reduced to dust. So much for taking Mordred back here.

_‘Emrys! Emrys, are you alright?’_

Speaking of the devil. ‘ _I’m fine, don’t worry. Me and the egg both,’_ he answers, unable to wipe the bright smile off his face. ‘ _On your end as well?_ ’

 _‘You know, nobody said you had to bring the whole thing down,’_ comes the reply, but Merlin can hear the relief underneath the sarcasm. ‘ _And yes, Borden’s still out of it._ ’

Merlin allows himself a few minutes to catch his breath, pondering his options. The sun is already setting, and walking back to where Mordred is still resting would take him a few hours—something he really doesn’t fancy right now.

With the transportation spell out of the question as well, he eventually just calls Kilgharrah; after all, he did offer and has a personal interest in the whole affair. Merlin just hopes that the knights aren’t close enough yet to spot a decidedly not-just-hatched dragon against the darkening sky.

It’s a testament to the occasion that Kilgharrah doesn’t complain, simply letting Merlin mount his back and taking him to where Mordred’s already waiting.

“We should get out of here,” Merlin says, not bothering to dismount. “Just get Borden, we can drop him off close to the tower, and then find a place where we can hatch it.”

Truth be told, he’s impatient with excitement, and Mordred can probably tell because for once, he just does as he’s told. Sometimes, Merlin wonders if this is how Arthur felt on those rare occasions when Merlin simply followed his orders—usually when they believed to be dying soon, but he brushes the thought away.

Tonight is not about Arthur; in fact, he’s rather glad about the freedom of his circumstances right now. Hatching a dragon while still living in Camelot would’ve been a disaster—if he had even managed to save the egg at all.

They leave Borden close to the tower, without his bonds but making certain that he won’t wake for a while longer. Arthur’s either going to find him like this or catch him soon enough elsewhere. If it’s the latter, Borden will probably show him the collapsed tower to prove his lack of a dragon.

It’s a bit of a gamble, but still, a better outcome than Merlin could’ve hoped for. 

“Any particular place you had in mind, young warlock?” Kilgharrah asks before taking flight, his neck craned to meet Merlin’s eyes.

“Not really,” he says, furrowing his brows. “Oh, you know what? Take us to the Isle of the Blessed.”

The idea comes out of nowhere, but he finds that he actually likes it; once the centre of magic, it has a rather symbolic value to bring a new dragon into life there. It’s also unlikely that they’re going to be disturbed there, and Merlin could do with a few positive memories of the place.

Mordred keeps a bruising grip on him for the whole flight, but Merlin barely notices. The night sky is ink-black above them, the cresting moon spending a faint light, and he thinks he can feel the egg humming with magic where his hand is lying protectively on it within his bag.

The courtyard is a tight fit for Kilgharrah, but at least his presence chases off the wyverns rather effectively.

After he has placed the egg onto the altar, Merlin’s a bit lost and stares helplessly at Kilgharrah.

“Only a Dragonlord has the power to call a young dragon into the world,” Kilgharrah says, and when Merlin continues to stare at him flatly, he huffs a breath. “You need to give it a name, young warlock.”

Right. That’s not a lot of pressure at all or anything. He can feel Mordred’s silent presence next to him and closes his eyes to focus on the part within himself that allows him to connect to Kilgharrah.

Taking a deep breath, he blinks his eyes open. “ _Aithusa_.”

Instantly, thin lines start appearing all over the surface, getting wider until the first pieces of the shell crack away, and a small, white head pokes out of the resulting hole.

Merlin stares in awe as the rest of the egg slowly breaks away, and a tiny, white dragon stumbles out of it. He reaches forward, offering a hand and not caring that he’s trembling, that there are tears streaming down his face, that his laughter sounds choked and muffled.

For the first time since he had to leave Camelot, his heart feels light and his smile without the slightest strain.

“White dragons are rare, and I believe this to be a truly good sign for you, and for Albion,” Kilgharrah says, joy as evident in his tone as Merlin thinks it must be on his face.

Aithusa makes a gurgling sound and bumps her head against his hand, and he lets her climb into it before turning to Mordred.

“She’s beautiful,” Mordred whispers, his eyes bright as he reaches out to run a finger over her head. “I—thank you. For letting me be here.”

Merlin nods and takes a few moments to gather himself. “Is—can she stay with us? Or…” he trails off, gesturing at Kilgharrah in silent question.

“No, young dragons were supposed to stay with the Dragonlord who hatched them. We see each other often enough that she’ll learn what she needs from me. She will be safer with you,” Kilgharrah says and bows his head, breathing a warm gust of air over both of them.

Aithusa curls up in his hand and tucks her head under a nearly translucent wing.

That night, when they’ve found a sheltered place on the island to set up camp, Merlin falls asleep curled around the small dragon, still smiling softly.

* * *

They have a list of supplies they need to get before returning to Ynys Gybi and decide to travel by foot until they reach the next town.

Of course, while it’s great for Aithusa to have some time to find her footing, it’s not the best idea to parade around with a baby dragon. For the most part, she’s content to stay in Merlin’s coat pocket when there are people around or to curl around his neck when they’re in the forest, but it’s probably to be expected that it wouldn’t go well indefinitely.

Perhaps Merlin shouldn’t have insisted to stay in a tavern, but it’s the middle of January and even warming charms don’t make sleeping in the forest comfortable by any stretch of the word.

It’s a bigger village and the tavern is fairly packed with people, most of them probably travelling from one kingdom to the other. The floor is sticky with dirt and alcohol, the air thick with the smell of wet clothes, food, and ale, and Merlin just hopes that nobody is going to bother them in the dark corner they’ve snatched for themselves.

At least the food is good, and he keeps slipping scraps of meat into his pocket for Aithusa—which is where he goes wrong.

“Hey wimp, saving your precious scraps of food for later?” a voice booms towards them, followed by a shadow falling over their table.

Merlin’s shoulder tense and he curls a protective hand around Aithusa within his pocket before slowly lifting his head.

“Are you talking to me?” he asks, raising an eyebrow and looking the man up and down. He’s broad and unshaven and would probably be intimidating to someone who’s not Merlin. His eyes are glazed though, and he doesn’t seem all that steady on his feet.

A grunt follows as the man leans over the table. “ _Obviously_. Are you dumb as well as pathetic?”

And alright, Merlin knows he shouldn’t let himself be baited, but he can feel the tension radiating off of Mordred, and he had his fair share of taking abuse and avoiding conflict for the sake of keeping a low profile.

Now, he has a face-blindness charm and a dragon in his pocket, and a drunken idiot who thinks he can push strangers around to grab some money. He just hopes that he can deal with this without drawing everyone’s attention.

Pushing his chair back, he gets to his feet and notes with some satisfaction that he’s taller by half a head. He keeps his arms loosely at his sides though, one hand still on Aithusa, and narrows his eyes. “Do you have a problem?”

“So what if I do?” the man spits, leering at him. “What’s a wimp like you going to do about it?”

Merlin tilts his head, hoping that letting his eyes glow gold will be enough to settle the whole thing before it can get out of hand. 

“Leave those kids alone, you bastard!” someone shouts, and it’s followed by a dull thud that sends the man sprawling on the ground.

Oh bloody hell, this _cannot_ be happening.

The whole tavern is breaking out into shouts and within seconds, fists and tankards are flying everywhere.

And Gwaine is staring at Merlin as if he has just seen a ghost.

“Um—hi?” Merlin tries but has to duck and pull Gwaine with him to avoid a chair flying in their direction. Right, they should probably get out of here first.

Waving a hand, he freezes the scenery and grabs his bag from the ground, giving Mordred a soft nudge. “Come on, unless you want to try all that magic you’ve been studying, we should leave. I can only do this for so long.”

Thankfully, Mordred shakes himself out of his stupor and takes their remaining belongings. Gwaine is far less cooperative; he’s alternating between staring at Merlin and the frozen men around them, and Merlin eventually huffs and simply drags him outside.

“So much for not sleeping in the forest,” Merlin grumbles as they jog out of the village. His only answer is a chirp out of his pocket which, ironically, seems to finally get Gwaine to rediscover his vocal cords.

“You’re dead,” Gwaine states bluntly, pulling them to a stop just outside the village. His eyes are wide and he keeps running a hand through his hair, though it doesn’t hide the shaking of them.

Gods, but he’s so not ready for this.

Mordred clears his throat. “Well, technically he was. For a short time, at least. Now he’s not—“

“Not helping,” Merlin sighs, flashing him an apologetic smile. “Look, let’s find a place where we can camp for the night and I’ll—try to explain?”

Gwaine’s eyes narrow and he straightens his shoulders. “You’ll better. And while you’re at it, you can also tell me what you did in there.”

“He froze time,” Mordred pipes up, a hint of pride and awe lacing his tone, and Merlin merely shakes his head and quickens his steps.

Seriously, what are the chances of running into Gwaine in some tavern between Camelot and Gwynned? Which, come to think of it—“What are _you_ doing here?” 

“I think I’m currently having more rights to that question,” Gwaine grouches.

Another chirp from his pocket draws Merlin’s attention and he sighs, lifting Aithusa out of her hiding place. “It’s alright, everything’s fine,” he murmurs, settling her on his shoulder where she curls around his neck.

“Did you say he froze time? And is that a _dragon_?” Gwaine murmurs, obviously deciding that it’s more worthwhile to talk to Mordred which—Merlin can’t blame him. He wishes that Gwaine would just talk to Mordred instead of him as well.

As they enter the forest, Merlin conjures them some light and starts collecting firewood until they find a small clearing that will be fine for the rest of the night. Dropping the wood and their luggage, he lets the camp set itself up and paces the small space, only stopping when he catches Gwaine staring at him.

“What?”

Gwaine shakes his head and gestures around them, gestures at Merlin, runs a hand through his hair again, and then plops onto one of the bedrolls. “Just—how? And why, and—“

And Merlin can’t do this, can’t deal with that toxic mix of guilt and fear and memories that’s causing his stomach to roll and his hands to sweat.

“I’m immortal, apparently. Can’t die, whatever. I could hardly return to Camelot, seeing that I still don’t enjoy getting executed, and neither do I fancy dealing with all— _this_ ,” he huffs, gesturing vaguely into Gwaine’s direction.

A flash of hurt crosses Gwaine’s face and Merlin winces, running a hand through his hair. “Look—it’s… I get it. Magic is evil, and I lied to you all, and I don’t even blame you for being angry or disappointed or—“

“Merlin—“

“Just—if you could spare me the lecture, that would be great. Not trying to murder me in my sleep as well, come to think of it, even if it won’t stick but it’s still not a very nice experience and—"

“Merlin!”

“If you feel like your loyalty to Arthur demands that you tell him I’m alive, go for it if you must, it’s not like he’ll be able to find me anyway. Though I’d really prefer if—“

“Merlin, for fuck’s sake, shut up!” Gwaine shouts, and Merlin didn’t even notice that he got up and crossed the distance between them.

Aithusa hisses when Gwaine shakes his shoulders, but while he quickly lets go, he doesn’t step back. “I’m not—I don’t bloody care. About your magic, or Arthur, or about the lies. Well—maybe a little about the lies, it would’ve been bloody great to know that you’re alive because it would’ve spared me a lot of trouble and grief, but not about the magic-lies—“ Gwaine huffs and pulls a grimace before taking a deep breath. “What I mean to say is—yeah, I’m a bit angry. But I’m also happy and confused, and I just want to hear how you are and assure myself that this is real and I won’t wake up tomorrow with a hangover—“

Merlin shuts him up by hugging him tightly, and Gwaine sags in his hold, a choked sob breaking out of him.

They stay like this for a long time, and even though Merlin doesn’t cry, his fingers clench in the rough material of Gwaine’s jacket as he presses his face into the crook of his neck. When they finally break apart, Gwaine smiles weakly. “I left Camelot, by the way. Months ago, a month after your—well. You know.”

Steering them over to the fire, Merlin settles down next to Mordred and smiles gratefully when he hands him a skin of wine.

“Why?” he asks, taking a sip and passing it on to Gwaine.

Gwaine shrugs but it doesn’t look nearly as careless as he probably meant it to be. “Not going to stay and serve a king who murdered my best friend, would I?”

Merlin feels like there’s more to it but doesn’t push, merely ducking his head at the admission. “I’m sorry, you know?”

He doesn’t get more than a nod, and silence settles over them until Gwaine huffs. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

“I’m Mordred,” he says before Merlin can answer, holding his hand out for Gwaine to shake. “If you were a knight, can you teach me how to fight with a sword?”

Merlin groans and Gwaine laughs, but there’s an unmistakable curiosity in his eyes as he looks between the two of them.

“Apparently, I have a habit of picking up strays,” Merlin says by means of explanation, ruffling Mordred’s hair in the way he knows he hates.

Gwaine smirks. “Good, because you can bet all your magic that you’re not going to get rid of me again. And of course I can teach you sword fighting. I’m better than King Arthur.”

This is going to be either horrible or fantastic; though, probably both if Merlin wants to be honest with himself.

* * *

“You’re the king of the magic people.”

“I’m not.”

“They worship you!”

“They don’t.”

“You have two dragons and a whole island full of people who bow to you, and Mordred said there’s a prophecy as old as mankind about you, and—“

“Gwaine, will you shut up?” Merlin finally snaps, closing the door to his room behind them with a bit more force than strictly necessary.

If introducing Gwaine to Mordred was a terrible decision, taking him to Ynys Gybi quickly turns out to be an even worse one.

During the week it took them to gather all the supplies and make their way back here, Gwaine has been surprisingly hesitant with his questions and chatter, at least as far as Merlin was concerned. He mostly talked to Mordred, told a few tales of what he has been up to, and simply watched Merlin a lot.

Faced with Kilgharrah and the stir they’ve caused upon returning with a baby dragon and an ex-knight of Camelot in tow, whatever inhibition he might’ve had has obviously vanished.

Unfortunately, Merlin for his part is tired and tense. Gwaine’s presence is bringing a whole barrage of memories and repressed feelings with it, and it only makes him feel worse because all things considered, he should be glad to have at least one of his friends back.

On top of that, as soon as they’ve arrived on the island, a priest of the Catha pulled him aside. He isn’t the biggest fan of Alator on the best of days—the whole proclivity for torture rubs him the wrong way—and it didn’t get better when he told Merlin that Morgana is searching for him.

Or well, for Emrys. He has no idea where she’s heard that name, though if he has to take a guess, he’d assume that she had a vision like he and Mordred had when she tore the veil. The only silver lining is that according to Alator, people keep telling her that he died, seeing that it’s true, theoretically.

He just has little to no hope that she’s going to believe that for long.

So, all in all, his mood is rather nasty right now and Gwaine’s presence and incessant needling couldn’t come at a worse time.

Aithusa nudges his cheek which finally gets a small smile out of him, and he lifts her from his shoulder to settle her on his bed. “Don’t set anything on fire, will you?” he murmurs before drawing a deep breath and turning back around.

Mordred’s already lounging in a chair by the fire he must’ve started, Taranis on his knee as he feeds him scraps of dried meat, and Gwaine’s wandering through the room, looking at books and trinkets that are lining the shelves.

Probably sensing his gaze, Gwaine turns towards him and crosses his arms over his chest. There’s a stubborn set to his jaw and his eyes are slightly narrowed, and Merlin instantly wants to flee the room.

“It reminds me of Gaius’ workshop,” Gwaine says, his voice too light to really be casual. “Do you think he’d thank you for leaving him in the belief that he’s lost you?”

Merlin winces and busies himself with unpacking his bags. “It’s safer this way. I can’t expect him to keep such another huge secret for me, it’s a miracle he didn’t suffer alongside me for the last one.”

Gwaine scoffs. “Well, I for one would’ve gladly taken the secrecy over thinking you’re dead, and I’m pretty sure that Gaius and the others would tell you the same thing if you deigned to give them the choice.”

His back stiffens and he stops rummaging around the room, turning his full attention on Gwaine. Apparently, they’re doing this now. “And what would you have me do, walk into Camelot, proclaim I’m still alive and repeat the whole bloody process that has led me here?”

“Why not,” Gwaine shouts, throwing his hands up and glaring at him. “Do you honestly think Arthur would harm any of them, or even you? And even if he did, so what—you can’t die! Even _he_ would get that eventually.”

A bitter laugh wrenches itself out of Merlin’s throat, and he shakes his head in disbelief. “Oh sure, because it doesn’t fucking _hurt_ or anything; because seeing the person I—seeing _Arthur_ direct all that hatred at me is just a minor inconvenience. But hey, it’s just Merlin, let’s execute him as many times as it takes until Arthur gets tired of trying and contents himself with banishment. Thanks, but it’s much easier to stay away in the first place,” he bites out, and even just thinking about it makes him feel like drowning.

Gwaine’s eyes are blazing though and he sneers slightly, the expression foreign on his face. Deep down, Merlin knows that it’s hurt causing all this, but he can’t help but think that he did this too, turned someone who was once cheerful and warm into something bitter and jaded.

“That’s kind of selfish, don’t you think? Making assumptions, hiding away out of fear of a confrontation, leaving all your friends and family in the belief that you’re dead—do you have any idea how Arthur dealt with what happened? He—“

“Shut up.” It’s barely more than a low hiss, and Merlin has to clench his hands into fists to keep himself where he is. Anger is flaring underneath his skin, heart pounding against his ribs, and he thinks if Gwaine says one more word, he might just fling him out of the window.

“If you know what’s good for you, you’re going to drop it. I get that you’re hurt and disappointed, but I’ve sacrificed so bloody much for that fucking kingdom, for its people, my friends, for _Arthur_. I still protect them, against _my own people_ more often than I can count, and I will keep doing so. But even if I went back, then what?” he asks, smiling mirthlessly when Gwaine doesn’t answer.

“Magic’s still outlawed. Hell, being alive is probably a crime in itself because I’m pretty damn sure this fantastic immortality is magic too, and I’m not going back to hiding myself. To—to being scared out of my mind half the bloody time, and you don’t get to tell me that it’s selfish. Either you accept things the way they are, or you can leave,” he finishes quietly, but his voice is hard and sounds foreign to his own ears. 

They stare at each other for long moments until Gwaine turns his head away, his shoulders slumping.

Merlin knows that he’s being unfair, that he shouldn’t have let himself be riled up like this, but Gwaine’s cutting away at all the defences he so carefully built around himself over the better part of the last year, and he just can’t do this.

“I’m going to sleep. You’re welcome to stay here,” he says and instantly turns away, chucking off his boots and coat before dropping into his bed, curling around Aithusa.

His eyes are burning but he swallows the tears down, fingers clenching in the rough fabric of his blankets. This, right here, is exactly why he’s keeping his distance; all those questions and accusations, the memories of what he was forced to give up, and the pain of it all is like a physical, unbearable wound.

There’s the sound of boots thudding against the stone floor, and a chair being pulled. “What happened to him?” Gwaine murmurs, his voice thick and defeated in a way Merlin has never heard him.

Mordred sighs. “I—don’t know him any differently, to be honest. All I can tell you is that he sometimes gets… like this. Quiet, I guess. You need to give him space instead of trying to push him.”

“Merlin was never like this,” Gwaine says hoarsely. “Not the Merlin I knew. He was secretive, yes, but never—this distant and angry.”

“Well, would you be the same after what happened to him? Not only was he executed while Arthur watched, but he also has to deal with being immortal—which may sound great at the first impression but honestly, I think it’s a rather daunting thought. He lost his home, those closest to him—one way or another, anyway,” Mordred says quietly, and Merlin can just picture the serious, intense look in his eyes.

“I still don’t understand why he can’t go back. He doesn’t _have_ to be without his home.”

There’s a pause and then Mordred sighs again, a chair creaking. “You don’t understand how it is, to live your whole life in fear because of something you never chose. How it is to hide, being forced to lie, knowing that the people who claim to love you might condemn you if they knew. It’s a lonely life, and his even more so because even among his own kind, he’s never just one of us. Not wanting to face the potential hatred once again—maybe you don’t understand, but I do.”

Merlin clenches his eyes shut and presses his face into the pillow, teeth sinking into his bottom lip to prevent any sounds from slipping out. Aithusa nestles closer, her small snout pressing against his neck, but even that doesn’t ease the silent sobs that are shaking his body.

“Why—“ Gwaine pauses and draws a breath before saying, “Why does he still protect Camelot, then?”

“It’s complicated. He still wants to see his destiny come to pass but… Right now, he doesn’t believe in it, in _Arthur_ , not really. I guess that makes it all rather… messy.”

Gwaine’s groan breaks the silence after a while and his voice is muffled when he speaks. “I shouldn’t have said those things, I know, I just—it’s hard to understand. And he didn’t even seem happy to see me, just—troubled, and I feel like I’ve failed him all over again.”

He can only just hear Mordred’s, “You need to give him time,” before he casts a silencing charm around himself. If he hears one more word, he’s going to fall apart completely, and he’s not sure he will get up anytime soon if he lets it happen.

* * *

Merlin picks himself back up and keeps going. Gwaine doesn’t leave, but there’s a strained undercurrent to their relationship in the following weeks that stays even though they don’t shout at each other again.

In the end, Merlin admits to himself that it’s probably on him to do something if he doesn’t want to lose his friend out of sheer stubbornness, and drags Gwaine to his room, a rather large amount of ale in tow.

They drink and talk, hesitantly at first but more freely the drunker they get. They do stay far away from anything related to Camelot though and eventually tumble into bed together, all frantic hands and urgent movement. They used to do this sometimes, back in Camelot, and it manages to bridge some of the distance between them.

He knows that sex is probably not the best solution, but he thinks it helps Gwaine to convince himself that Merlin’s still the same person, and it makes Merlin feel… more human, maybe. It’s also familiar and uncomplicated and has been far too long, so he doesn’t question it too much.

From then on, Gwaine spends the occasional night in Merlin’s bed, and it becomes easier; Gwaine’s still watching him often, and Merlin keeps pretending he doesn’t notice, and it’s not the same as it once was, but still much better than it could be.

* * *

“How could he be so stupid?” Merlin rages, pacing his room while his bag is already packing itself.

“Well—“

“No,” he snaps at Gwaine, narrowing his eyes. “He plunged his whole kingdom into war because of bloody _Agravaine._ I’ve warned him about this! But does he ever listen? And when his highness _finally_ realises the pile of shit he’s got himself into, he negotiates single combat. Which, okay, not the worst idea but of course, Arthur bloody Pendragon just has to fight personally like he’s not the fucking King of Camelot.”

There’s a beat of silence at the end of his rant and Mordred and Gwaine exchange a glance before the latter says, “Alright, so what’s the plan?”

Merlin grimaces and plasters a smile on his face. “Uh—I’m sorry, but I can only take Mordred?”

At Gwaine’s outraged expression, he quickly lifts a hand to stall the argument. “I’m not sure if I’m able to teleport three people, and the results if I fail are not nice. There’s also a whole army of soldiers who all know your face, and I’m not sure yet how obvious an intervention might turn out to be.”

“You also don’t have magic, and one sword against two armies…” Mordred says with a shrug, expression utterly unapologetic, and sometimes Merlin wonders if he’s the first person who ever actually socialised with Mordred.

Gwaine stares between them with narrowed eyes but eventually just huffs. “Alright, I get your point. I don’t like it, but I get it. So, dragon-sitting for me, I guess?”

Aithusa chirps from her place on the bed, and Merlin exhales a relieved sigh. “Yes, don’t let her out of the room. No ale or wine for the dragon—“

“Shut up, Merlin,” Gwaine interrupts, but he’s smiling and pulls him into a hug, so he thinks it’s probably alright.

A transportation spell later sees Merlin and Mordred about a mile away from where Camelot’s army has made camp, and he quickly unpacks the crystal again.

“Let me,” Mordred says softly, taking the wrapped package from him. “You can set up wards on the camp, and I’ll let you know if anyone enters Arthur’s tent.”

Mordred has become rather good at scrying, but Merlin knows that he’s really offering for his sake.

He has barely started though when Mordred calls, “Emrys? What’s his name—the slimy one, he just entered Arthur’s tent and replaced his sword. I don’t know if he swapped them or put it back but—“

“Shit,” he curses under his breath, hurrying over to where Mordred’s leaning against a tree and taking the crystal from him. He finds Arthur’s tent easily enough, but there’s nothing visibly out of order; Arthur’s sleeping, his sword lying on the table and gleaming in the light of the few candles still burning.

Closing his eyes, he heaves a deep sigh. “I need to check on it. Waiting until the battle is too risky, and if Agravaine did anything to it…”

Mordred watches him for long moments. “I could go.”

“No,” Merlin refuses instantly, shaking his head. “I’m not putting you into danger just because I don’t want to see him. I’ll be quick, and you keep watch.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. Pulling up his hood, he disappears into the trees, jogging until he’s close to the camp. Sneaking in and distracting the guards is still ridiculously easy, and he slips into the royal tent unnoticed.

The layout is still familiar, and he firmly keeps his eyes away from the corner where Arthur’s sleeping as he tiptoes towards the table. The sword doesn’t look like it has been tampered with and he frowns, whispering a spell to detect enchantments.

There’s a faint, red shimmer and he has to bite his tongue to keep from cursing out loud. He doesn’t know exactly what it does or how to undo it, and after taking a moment to centre himself, simply pushes against it with his own magic, willing whatever it is to break.

It takes a few tries, but eventually, something gives. The shimmer fades, leaving behind only the faintest glow of gold.

Whoever Agravaine is consorting with has to be quite powerful though, and Merlin has a horrible suspicion that he just knows whose work this was.

Involuntarily, his eyes flicker over to Arthur. He’s lying on his stomach, one arm underneath the pillow and the blankets low around his waist. Before Merlin knows what he’s doing, he has crossed the short distance, taking in the sight of blonde hair fanning over the pillow, the smooth lines of his face and slightly parted lips.

His heart is lodged firmly in his throat and his hands are trembling as he reaches out to brush against Arthur’s temple, warm skin soft underneath his fingertips. A strangled noise escapes him, and he presses his knuckles against his mouth, belatedly realising that there are tears running down his face.

He just wants to _stay_. Wants to stay right here and let his hands run through Arthur’s hair, over his face, memorize every small mark and line and imperfection, everything that makes him alive and whole and _Arthur_. Wants to leave a part of himself behind, to paint words upon words into golden skin to reassure that he never meant to leave, to betray him. Wants to reassure them both that they’re going to be okay, someday, maybe.

But he can’t; he knows he can’t, and finally jerks his hand away, the simple act so much harder than anything else he ever had to do. 

He’s just willing his legs to move when a hand closes around his wrist and he freezes, a bolt of pure terror surging through him as Arthur lifts his head slightly.

“Merlin?” he slurs, eyes unfocused and bright with sleep, and he can’t breathe, can’t tear his eyes away from the way Arthur’s lips twist slightly in confusion and the small crease that’s forming between his brows.

He says the first thing that comes to mind. “You’re dreaming.”

It sounds so choked and flat that he’s sure Arthur won’t possibly believe him, but he just stares up at Merlin and nods slowly. “Good,” he murmurs, letting go of his wrist and sinking back into his pillows. “It’s better than the others.”

Merlin stumbles back as soon as Arthur’s eyes close. His vision is blurry and he’s unsteady on his feet, one hand still pressed against his mouth and the other clenched so tightly it hurts. The small stretch of skin where Arthur’s fingers just touched feels like it’s burning.

Somehow, he makes it out of the camp and stumbles back behind the tree line. It’s probably not far enough to avoid the patrols but he can’t go farther, can’t do anything but drop to his knees and fold into himself and finally, finally let himself fall apart.

Distantly, he thinks he can hear Mordred call to him over the noises that are spilling out of his throat, can feel arms wrap around him and pull him along, but he’s too focused on the throbbing pain in his chest, on being unable to breathe and wanting it all to just stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's all pour one out for Gwaine because seriously, my poor boy. You know what? Let's pour one out for all of them because I think they need it (except Aithusa maybe.) I promise it'll get better eventually, but it's so much more fun if they have to suffer for it, right? Right. (Can you tell I'm feeling bad yet?)


	7. a secret language i can't speak with anyone else

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your feedback! ❤️
> 
> Chapter title comes from [Taylor Swift - illicit affairs](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MLV2SJKWk4M)

Arthur pushes the door to Gaius’ workshop open, not bothering to knock. He has spent a lot of time here over the last few months, hearing stories about Merlin and learning more about magic, and Gaius is used to him coming and going as he pleases.

Sometimes, Guinevere and Lancelot join them if they’re talking about the former and it’s actually why Arthur’s here right now.

It has taken him some time to come to terms with the unfortunate realisation from his coronation and even longer to confront it, but between Gaius’ stories, his continued dreams, and his observation of the lasting affection between Guinevere and Lancelot, there’s really only one right thing to do.

Lost in thought as he is, it takes him a moment to comprehend that it’s not Gaius sitting at the table, and he freezes when recognition hits him. “Hunith?”

She startles, but smiles when she sees him, quickly getting up and dropping into a curtsy. “Your Majesty,” she greets warmly as if Arthur’s father isn’t the reason that her son is dead; as if Arthur didn’t do anything to stop it, hadn’t failed her and Merlin on every level imaginable.

“What—“ he starts, only to break off again, shaking his head and taking a step back. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out, his voice trembling. “I’m so sorry.”

Before he knows what’s happening, she’s pulling him into a hug, a soothing hand rubbing circles between his shoulders. “It’s not your fault, Arthur. I know you would’ve stopped your father if you could’ve, and there’s no use in blaming yourself,” she murmurs, and even though her voice is heavy, he can hear that she actually believes it.

When she draws back, her hands stay on his shoulders and she manoeuvres him effortlessly into a chair by the table. They’re silent while she prepares tea for them both, and he still doesn’t know what to say when she sits down across from him.

“Sometimes,” she starts hesitantly, her eyes fixed on her hands where they turn around the goblet. “He—it doesn’t really feel like he’s dead, you know?”

Arthur swallows against the tightness in his throat, and he turns his mother’s ring restlessly. He knows what she’s talking about, but he’s also terrified of what lies at the end of that road.

She must mistake his silence because she shrugs and smiles weakly. “I know, sounds like a thing a mother would say, doesn’t it? As if we have a sixth sense for this kind of thing just because we want it to be true. And he—I’m sure he would’ve let us know by now if he was alive.”

Unbidden, images and scenes from his dreams flash through his mind, of warnings that held truth in them, and memories Gaius unknowingly confirmed for him. Of fingers touching his face gently, leaving a trail of warmth behind that felt all too real. Of that small spark of hope that’s resisting all logical reasoning.

But he also knows that Hunith is right. If Merlin survived through whatever means, he would’ve let his mother and Gaius know—and maybe even Arthur and his friends, at least after Uther’s death. He would have to know that Arthur could never hurt him, right?

“I understand,” he says quietly, and his smile is probably shaky at best, but he’s still overwhelmed with gratitude for her forgiveness and the shock of running into her at all. “At the very least, his memory certainly lives on.”

Hunith reaches over the table and takes his hand in both of hers, and her eyes are way too knowing. “You must miss him a lot.”

Arthur swallows and turns his head away, a choked laugh escaping him. If he’s this obvious to a woman he hasn’t met more than a handful of times, how clear must he be to others?

Seemingly able to read him, she squeezes his hand until he looks back at her. “I’ve seen the same look on him, have seen the two of you together. Mothers simply know these kinds of things even when their sons didn’t realise it themselves at the time.”

The implication is clear, but it does nothing to ease the tightness of his chest. “I’m considering to lift the ban on magic,” he blurts out, mostly to say something, to steer them away from territory he’d rather leave alone, though he doesn’t know why _this_ is his first choice of distraction.

He hasn’t even told Gaius, though he supposes that after all those discussions about the topic, he probably has his suspicions.

Hunith doesn’t look exactly shocked, more pleasantly surprised, and offers him another soft smile. “He would’ve loved that. Though it sounds like a huge and risky undertaking for the beginning of your reign.”

“It’s definitely not something I’m planning to do anytime soon, with Morgana still out there and the court wary of myself as the King…” he trails off and shrugs, suddenly aware of how freely he’s giving away information.

Not that he thinks Hunith would use it against him, but Arthur’s far from confident in his abilities to lead Camelot. The disaster with King Caerleon and the near war with Gwynned is still fresh on his mind, as well as the realisation that he hasn’t done half of the feats he claimed over the years.

In spite of his lasting bitterness over Merlin’s execution which recently manifests ridiculously often in dreams where he’s warned about Agravaine being a traitor, he has grown grateful for his uncle’s presence. He does question his advice, especially when it starts with _‘your father would have_ ,’ but Agravaine’s intrinsic familiarity with the workings of court and nobility, and the knowledge that he has Arthur’s best interest at heart, are the only things that keep him from suffocating underneath the weight of the crown some days.

“You have a good heart, Arthur. I’m sure that you will make a great King,” Hunith says, drawing him out of his thoughts. “Now, why did you come here before I went all maudlin on you?”

“Thank you,” he says, and he means it, but he can’t hold her gaze for long. Her eyes remind him too much of another pair he’s never going to see again, and he’s suddenly glad for the escape she’s offering him. “I was actually looking for Guinevere.”

“Ah, I think she accompanied Gaius to a patient in the lower town, though I assume she would be home by now,” Hunith says, already getting up and putting away their goblets.

Arthur follows but hesitates to leave. “Are you… Do you regret it? Sending him here?” he asks, and he has no idea why he does. The answer must be obvious, but something forces the words out before he can think better of it.

Hunith looks surprised for the fraction of a second before she straightens, her gaze unwavering. “No, Arthur. He was happy here, by your side—where he belonged. There is no use in wondering about what-ifs, and Merlin would’ve never been content with life in Ealdor.”

It feels like absolution, and for the first time, Arthur believes that one day he might be able to forgive himself as well. The way her, ‘ _where he belonged_ ,’ makes his stomach flip also strengthens his resolve for what he’s about to do, though he’d appreciate it if his heart could finally catch up with the fact that Merlin is dead.

The time it takes him to make his way to Guinevere’s home is enough to gather himself and find his composure, and he feels strangely calm when he knocks on the familiar door.

“Arthur,” she says upon opening the door, surprise clear on her face. “Come in.”

“Sit down,” she says when he hovers, ever the practical one. “Did something happen?”

Taking the offered seat at the table, he shakes his head and draws a deep breath. “No, nothing, just—I need to talk to you.”

Her expression is guarded when she takes the seat across from him, but she gestures for him to go on.

“Alright, so—you remember our conversation from Samhain?” he asks, and gods, he had a whole, eloquent speech planned out for this. Then again, he’s never been good at writing speeches.

She nods slowly. “Yes—did you change your mind?” It’s said carefully, and Arthur’s certain that he doesn’t imagine the wariness in her eyes.

“No, I’m—I still—I think that it’s better for both of us if we stay friends. You deserve to be happy, and I can’t devote myself to you the way you deserve it. I do love you; I really do but…” he trails off, gesturing a bit helplessly, but he’s relieved to find that her expression has softened.

“But you’re not in love with me,” she states calmly, and there’s not a hint of accusation in her tone. “I think I feel the same. We kind of… stumbled into our whole relationship and maybe we also grew out of it.”

“You always had a better way with words,” he murmurs, ducking his head. “You would’ve made a marvellous queen.” And she would have, Arthur knows, and a part of him will always be sad that it didn’t work out. “But—there’s something else. You and Lancelot—while I pushed you away, you two were there for each other. As it should be, whether between friends or something else.”

Guinevere tenses and he quickly shakes his head, smiling at her. “I’m not mad or hurt. Not only because I have no right to, but because I’m glad that someone is there for you, because I want you to be happy. And if—if what you have with Lancelot has the potential to develop beyond friendship, I want you to know that I’d be happy for you two as well.”

And he really would; there’s none of the resentment or bitterness left he felt months ago. If he’s completely honest with himself, it might even lessen some of the lingering guilt at how he treated her over the last year.

“Arthur,” she starts, and he’s a bit taken aback by the concerned frown marring her features. “If this is because of Merlin, you—please, don’t take this the wrong way, but you need to move on at some point. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful and—and I think regardless, breaking off our courtship is—well, good for both of us. But it feels as if you’re still holding on to something that’s not there anymore, or even punishing yourself, and I don’t want you to do something you might regret later.”

He clenches his jaw against the first impulse to deny her words or argue. It hits a bit too close to the truth for comfort, but he knows that losing his temper would only prove her point, and what he feels for Merlin is for him, and him alone.

Still, he doesn’t want to outright lie to her either and sighs. “I’m not saying that it’s not still hard; first Merlin, then my father, suddenly having to rule on my own. But none of these things contradicts what I said to you, and I know that I won’t regret this—not to mention that you are free to choose who you’re falling in love with. I don’t want to be the kind of man who demands anything from you because of our past.”

She still doesn’t look convinced and he smiles. “Gwen, I’m honest. Please, be happy, it’s the best you can do for me.”

Her whole demeanour softens at his use of her nickname, yet she still manages to look stern. “You need to stop hiding yourself away, Arthur. You’re not talking to any of us, not about the things that matter, and we’re worried about you.”

Averting his eyes, he nods. “I’ll try,” he sighs, even though the mere idea makes his chest ache. There are so many parts of himself only Merlin got to discover, and deep down, he wants to keep it that way. His whole life is dictated by the role he has been born into, but there are these small spaces that only ever existed between the two of them; opening them up to anyone else feels like giving away the one piece of Merlin that he really knew, that was only ever _his_.

* * *

“Arthur, it has been nearly three days, I’m not sure—“

“No,” he snaps, cutting his uncle off with a glare. They’re standing in the council chambers, and there’s a heavy weight in his stomach that, for once, has nothing to do with his treasonous, late manservant. “I’m not going to call off the search for my first knight until we know for certain what’s happened to him.”

It’s not only that they’ve lost Leon in the heat of battle. It’s the cold, unyielding realisation that they must have a traitor at court because there’s no way that the attack on them in the Valley of the Fallen Kings wasn’t an ambush.

Their route must’ve got leaked, and apart from his most trusted knights, only Gaius and Agravaine were aware of their plans. Memories of warnings about his uncle in increasingly urgent tones are rummaging through his head, but what kind of king draws his information from bloody _dreams_? His reign is already off to a bad start, he’s not going to add ‘slow descent into delusion and insanity’ to his many shortcomings.

“Sir Lancelot, get another small search party ready to leave in the morning, though make sure to not spread the word. I don’t need to receive false demands of ransom on top of everything else,” he orders, already calculating how long they’re going to be able to keep this under wraps.

With a quick, “Dismissed,” he disappears into his chambers, dismissing the servant who just finished drawing up a bath. He’s taken to dressing himself and has random servants clean his chambers—if anybody questions it, they’re smart enough not to do so out loud.

He knows that it’s a potential safety issue to not have someone who he at least has a modicum of trust in—as the whole disaster with Borden had proven—but the mere thought makes his skin crawl. Neither do any of them deserve to deal with his temper, and he’s the King; he can bloody well do what he wants.

The next day, the search party hasn’t been gone for more than an hour, and Arthur’s on the training field with the younger knights when the sounds of horses in the courtyard draw his attention. Calling for a break, he hurries over, his confusion only mounting when he sees Lancelot and Percival at the head of the group.

It’s only when he gets closer that he spots Leon sitting behind Elyan, alive and uninjured on the first glance.

“My Lord,” Lancelot calls as soon as he sees him, dismounting and handing the reins to a stable boy with a kind smile. “We’ve found him just a mile out of the castle.”

The relief is nearly overwhelming but he’s acutely aware of the place they’re in, and merely nods. “Let’s take this inside. Leon, do you need to see Gaius?”

“No, I’m fine, sire,” Leon answers, though he tilts his head slightly, indicating that there’s more to it. Arthur would’ve been surprised if there wasn’t; Leon wouldn’t just disappear to the extent of being untraceable without a reason.

He leads their small group past the council chamber and into his rooms, unwilling to risk being overheard, and waves down a servant to bring food and drinks.

As soon as they’re all sitting around his desk, he gestures for Leon to speak.

“The mercenaries who attacked us were Morgana’s men. She was the one who captured me, but I was unconscious until she woke me up,” Leon starts, eliciting winces from all of them.

“I mean no offence, but how are you here?” Arthur asks, checking Leon over once more and ignoring all the scenarios of what could’ve happened that his imagination so helpfully provides.

Leon shifts in his chair. “She held some kind of long speech, about how she’s not going to kill me but use some… _thing_ on me that would bend me to her will,” he says, and the revulsion is clear in his eyes and the twitching of his fingers.

“Before she could do anything, a man stormed in—a sorcerer. I’ve never seen Morgana so terrified, she looked at him like he was death personified,” Leon goes on, his voice quiet and disbelieving.

Arthur straightens in his chair and leans forward. “What did he look like?”

“He—“ Leon starts, then breaks off again and furrows his brows. “I’m not sure, actually. He was old, and wore a cloak, I think? He did something that froze Morgana, but he didn’t chant a spell or anything. He freed me, handed me my sword back, and told me to get back to Camelot. Said there’d be no trouble in the valley but to hurry—and…” he trails off, a grimace flickering over his face as he glances at Arthur.

“And what?” he demands impatiently, his thoughts whirling as he tries to come up with a logical explanation.

“And to tell you that you’re an idiot to travel through the Valley of the Fallen Kings, my lord,” Leon finishes with a sigh and an apologetic shrug.

Silence settles over the room, and Arthur’s somewhere between wary, outraged, and relieved. “The sorcerer—do you remember anything else? Was he the same who took out all those bandits, months ago?”

It has to be, right? How many sorcerers could there possibly be, helping out knights of Camelot?

Leon grimaces again, shaking his head. “I know she called him something when he first stormed in—something with M or E? The whole thing is rather blurry, to be honest. I’m still not quite sure that she didn’t just put a spell on me that causes hallucinations.”

Arthur nods, rubbing his temples. “Either way, I’m glad that you’re back and unharmed. Go get some rest but let me know if you remember anything else.”

“Of course, my Lord.”

* * *

“Are you finally going to believe me that Agravaine is a traitor?”

Arthur whirls around, less surprised than he should be to find himself in the clearing that has become a bit too familiar, with Merlin standing across from him.

“I mean, I actually followed him all the way to Morgana’s hide-out—pretty useful, by the way, otherwise I might’ve been too late for Leon,” Merlin adds, but the way his fingers are impatiently tapping against his arm where they’re tightly crossed over his chest belies his casual tone.

None of this makes the slightest amount of sense. “How am I supposed to believe anything you tell me?” Arthur hisses, throwing his hands up and starting to pace. “There’s no reasonable explanation for this except that my mind likes to drive me mad with memories of you that aren’t even _like_ you. I mean, the least it could do is make it feel like I’m talking to my friend, right?”

“Arthur,” Merlin starts, just to pause and draw a deep breath that seems to rattle in his chest. “You just have to trust me—“

“How? You’re _dead_ , no matter how much I want to believe it to not be true. Whenever I ask you about it, you say ‘magic,’ as if that explains anything. How do I even know that this is not some curse an enemy put on me to lead me on the wrong trail—if it’s not simply my subconsciousness as Gaius claims?” Arthur snaps, his heart pounding furiously in his chest.

The idea that someone could use the memory of Merlin against him like this is a chilling one, but it has been at the back of his mind for some time now.

Merlin sighs and uncrosses his arms, and the little light that falls on his face reveals dark shadows underneath his eyes and tight lines around his mouth. “Look, I’m telling you, Agravaine is in league with Morgana, and if you’re not careful—“

“He’s my uncle, and the only family I have left,” Arthur interrupts coolly, his hands balling into fists at his sides, nails biting into his skin. “Come to think of it, you never provide me with information on _Morgana_ , which only adds to the list of reasons why I shouldn’t trust a word you say.”

“I can’t track her—“

“ _You can’t track anyone because you’re dead!_ ” Arthur shouts, and he loathes how his voice cracks and trembles, how a few minutes of this are _still_ enough for his composure to shatter and his heart to break all over. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, trying to calm himself. “Alright if—if you’re not—if you’re really him, if you’re _alive—_ tell me something only Merlin would know. _Please_.”

It’s barely a whisper when he finishes, and for the first time since these dreams started, he’s glad for the darkness of night as it hides the tears that are burning in his eyes. It does nothing to mask the desperate hopefulness that’s lacing his words though.

He’s met with silence. Merlin has turned half away from him, but Arthur thinks he can see his shoulders shaking underneath the cloak.

“You used to… no. I’m sorry, no, I can’t,” Merlin breathes. “I _can’t_.”

* * *

There are no more warnings in the following weeks, and Arthur’s dreams are either the usual nightmares or memories that are less about things he couldn’t possibly know and more about instances where he and Merlin fought—or where Arthur behaved like a prick.

He’s not sure if he should be grateful or disappointed, and starts asking Gaius for sleeping draughts, after all—which leads him to realise how long it has been since he got a full night of undisturbed sleep.

The reprieve couldn’t come at a better time. There’s still the issue of a traitor in their court and it’s only a few days later that his uncle approaches him in his chambers.

“I do know that this is an uncomfortable topic, but we must take it seriously. Not many knew of the route you were taking, and we should inspect it with the utmost care,” Agravaine says, his eyes imploring with worry as he sits down across from Arthur.

“I know,” he says with a sigh, getting up and stepping towards the window. “But I trust all of these men with my life. I can’t picture any of those who were aware of our plans consorting with Morgana.”

It never becomes easier, to think of her as an enemy, to deal with all the questions of why she chose that path, of what he could’ve done differently. _Better_. He even understands her anger at their father but try as he might, he can’t pinpoint what he’s done that she never even _considered_ giving him a chance either.

“I understand,” his uncle says, his voice soft and thankfully preventing him from going down that all too familiar rabbit hole again. “But it is your safety that is at stake, and I’m not only worrying about you as the King but as my nephew—my sister’s son.”

Arthur turns to smile at him, a bit of warmth trickling through the tension, and runs a hand through his hair. “What would you suggest?”

Agravaine tilts his head and his fingers tap a slow rhythm against the desk. “If you’re certain that none of the knights would betray you—and I loathe to even propose this—then there’s only Gaius left who was aware of the route.”

“No,” he instantly refuses, shaking his head. “Gaius was always loyal, and what reason would he have?”

Too many long conversations, too many late nights in front of the fireplace in the cluttered workshop that, for his whole life, has felt more like home than most of the castle. He can’t fathom the idea of Gaius betraying him like this.

The chair scrapes against the stone floor and a moment later his uncle steps up next to him, a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “It pains me greatly to even suggest this too, Arthur, believe me. But there is still the question if he didn’t know about your servant’s magic just because the boy said so. He certainly couldn’t be trusted. It could also be a quest for revenge on Gaius’ part. The two of them were very close, were they not?”

Arthur’s jaw clenches at the disparaging mention of Merlin but he swallows his indignation. His uncle doesn’t know what he thinks about Merlin and everything he wishes he could’ve done and said differently, and he plans to keep it that way for a while. “I trust Gaius as much as I trust my knights, uncle. I just—don’t you think that there might be another option? Maybe some servant eavesdropped, or—or magic was involved.”

Come to think of it, is that possible? He feels like that is a question he should’ve posed months ago when trying to figure out if his dreams held any truth—if they do, whoever is sending them must be coming upon the information _somehow_ , after all.

“I’m not sure, Arthur. But again, your safety is at risk—surely asking a few questions is not too much to request from someone who has nothing to hide? It would put my mind at rest,” his uncle says, the hand on Arthur’s shoulder squeezing slightly before falling away.

Didn’t Guinevere say something about people being worried about him? He sighs. “I’ll talk to him.”

“I can—“

“No,” Arthur interrupts, holding up a hand to stall the argument. “I do need to learn to handle these things on my own, and I’ve known Gaius for my whole life.”

There’s the faintest frown growing between his uncle’s brows and he sighs before smiling. “Of course, but you also will always be able to count on my council and support. I’d be glad to assist you with this as well, to lessen your burden.”

“I know, and I thank you for that. I truly do,” Arthur says, and he can hear the gratitude in his own voice. “But I am the king, and I can’t be seen hiding behind my uncle in these matters,” he says, smiling slightly. “Not to mention that my father always said that to get a man to talk, he has to be comfortable.”

Truth be told, Arthur’s still convinced that Gaius isn’t the person they’re searching for and he’s also more than aware of the intense dislike he has for Agravaine. But the idea that there might be magic involved and not a traitor at all seems by far the most reasonable one, and he won’t be able to ask Gaius about it if his uncle is anywhere close to them.

Agravaine inclines his head. “Of course. Please, promise me to let me know if anything seems suspicious to you though. I can’t bear the thought of something happening to you.”

“I will,” he promises, hoping his smile isn’t as shaky as he feels it must be. There’s a small twinge of guilt at the secret he’s keeping, but there are also still the remains of irrational blame for Merlin’s death, and he consoles himself with the hope that one day, his uncle might learn and understand.

As it turns out, there _is_ a magical method to spy on people—because of course there is. The only silver lining is that it apparently doesn’t provide sound, but considering how they use to mark their routes on maps, it probably wasn’t necessary to hear them talk about it.

On the one hand, Arthur couldn’t be more relieved that none of the people he trusts most betrayed him. On the other—Morgana can easily spy on them from wherever she is, and they have no way to tell when she does.

He wonders if his father really was so very over-confident that he believed to be immune against these kinds of attacks, or if he simply didn’t know enough about the matter before destroying most sources that would’ve told him how to prevent them.

It’s just another point on the steadily growing list of reasons why an absolute ban on anything magical is more disadvantageous than helpful; if Arthur has learnt one thing over the years, it’s that it doesn’t stop those with ill intent, but only complicates stopping them.

He also has the growing suspicion that there’d be less magical attacks on his kingdom if not for the endless stream of people with a desire for revenge.

Ever since Gaius started to provide him with the few books he still has and his own knowledge, Arthur has been avoiding to think too much about the implications that come with his father being so wrong; tonight, he finds he can’t quite bring himself to.

His mind goes back to that incident with Morgause all those years ago, and subsequently to how Merlin stopped him from killing his father in his fury. In hindsight, it doesn’t make sense that Merlin would intervene in that manner—not only because he wouldn’t have had an interest in keeping Uther alive, but also because he quite literally condemned magic in the same breath, turning Arthur against it.

> _“Merlin might’ve had many reasons to want Uther dead, but he valued you more, and he knew that despite his many faults, you love your father. He didn’t want to see you suffer.”_

Gaius’ words from weeks ago come back to him, and he lets his head drop against the cool glass of the window, watching as his breath condenses.

He knows, he would’ve never forgiven himself for killing his father; not even now, as flickers of familiar anger are licking at his fingertips. And Merlin knew it too, threw away a chance for himself and all his kind, just to save Arthur from his own temper. The surge of longing and love—because there’s no way Arthur can possibly delude himself into calling it anything else—that’s overtaking him at the realisation nearly brings him to his knees.

His father didn’t even deny it—not Arthur’s accusations, nor the way-out Merlin so readily provided him with. It’s much easier to forgive Merlin for yet another lie than it is to not resent his father for tainting that single memory he got of his mother. And for nothing more than the sake of his secrets and lies, for keeping his own guilt hidden behind murder and torture and paranoia.

Always ready to blame anyone but himself, his father. Arthur thinks that it should be more painful, to watch the carefully crafted picture he clung to for so long crash and burn, but beyond the vaguely buzzing urge to have a go at a practise dummy, there’s mostly resigned emptiness.

Maybe he’s just too tired for proper grief these days. Or maybe some fundamental part already shattered when he was forced to watch Merlin’s execution—it’s getting hard to tell if he’s honest.

Gods but he had been so ready to follow his father without question. He’d lost count of how many people he had killed before officially becoming Crown Prince, and no matter how much the screams haunted him, he’d rarely disobeyed his orders. Always so very desperate for his father’s pride and approval, only to discover now that his father was probably the worst liar of them all.

Maybe Morgana and Merlin did have a point to not place their trust in him.

Staggering a few steps back, he drops into the chair at his desk and buries his head in his hands, a headache already pulsing behind his eyes. At least he hasn’t turned into a raging tyrant over his grief yet, so he guesses he has that going for himself.

* * *

The sound of the warning bells snaps Arthur awake and he winces at the painful crack his neck gives at the sudden movement. He barely gets time to figure out that he fell asleep at his desk and where all his limbs are before there’s a knock at the door.

Leon comes in as soon as he calls for him to enter, his face flushed and breathing fast. “Sire, the guards saw two men leaving with what, according to them, appeared to be an unconscious person. And…”

“And _what_ ,” Arthur snaps when the pause lasts too long, his blood already pulsing underneath his skin as alertness surges through him, clashing with worry as he runs through a list of potential people that could’ve been taken.

“And Gaius is missing, my lord.”

It’s like the rug gets pulled out from underneath him, the world tilting precariously on its axis, but he’s halfway across the room to where his armour is lying before he knows what he’s doing.

Leon’s hand on his shoulder stops him. “Arthur, it’s the middle of the night, there’s no chance of tracking them now. I’ll get the knights ready to leave at first light, and you should try to get a few more hours of sleep because, quite frankly, you look horrible.”

There’s no way that Arthur will be able to sleep again, and even if he did, it would be riddled with nightmares. Still, he breathes deeply and closes his eyes until he’s slightly calmer. “You’re right, we’ll leave in the morning. I’ll check Gaius’ chambers, and inform my uncle that he’ll need to take charge of the castle for the coming days.”

For long moments, Leon musters him intently, looking ready to protest. In the end, he just gives a short nod before leaving him to his own devices.

Gathering himself, he gets some fresh clothes and splashes cold water against his face until he feels less gritty and close to panic; he _won’t_ lose Gaius as well. Arthur is going to make sure to bring him back home and hopefully figure out along the way why he was abducted in the first place.

As court physician, he’s not one of the usual targets, and Arthur has a feeling that there’s more to it—and then he wants to laugh and cry all over again because ‘ _having a feeling’_ is such a Merlin thing to do, who would probably come back to haunt him if he doesn’t find Gaius and—

Arthur cuts off that train of thought, digging his nails into his palms until he can focus again. He’ll be of no use to anyone if he drives himself mad before they even leave.

Unfortunately, the hours until the late March sun creeps over the horizon are passing agonisingly slow, and Gaius’ chambers turn up nothing but a few signs of struggle. Arthur spends more than half an hour convincing his uncle to stay behind and no, he’s certain Gaius did not leave on his own volition and neither did his questioning last night turn up anything that would suggest so.

All things considered, he thinks he can be excused for being impatient and short with his knights when they’re finally mounting their horses.

The tracks are ridiculously easy to find and follow; so much so that after two hours, Arthur starts suspecting that they might’ve been left on purpose. Someone who manages to invade Camelot at night without discovery until they’re leaving with what they came for is unlikely to leave a trail as clear as a horde of deer would.

The others seem to share his impression if the rising nervousness is anything to go by.

“Sire, we might be walking straight into a trap,” Elyan finally voices what they’re all thinking when he picks a piece of dark fabric from a bush with freshly broken twigs.

Arthur purses his lips and nods. “We’re going on anyway, we have to get Gaius back to Camelot. Stay alert though, it wouldn’t do to get surprised.”

They pass through the Forest of Brechfa by early noon and follow the tracks farther south, still too clear to be mere carelessness.

“I think we might be heading to the Ridge of Chemary. The mines have been abandoned for some time and would make a good hiding spot. Or ambush,” Arthur says while they’re taking a short break to water the horses. “It shouldn’t take us more than another hour.”

They dismount just before reaching the bridge that leads them to the caves and creep forward quietly. It’s obvious that people passed through here recently, the soft ground littered with footsteps, one pair obviously heavier than the other. Just upon the entrance, they find three horses tied up.

Drawing their swords, they make their way inside, the sound of their footsteps muffled by the sandy ground. They’ve barely moved down the first corridor when shouts from down the left aisle reach them.

Arthur instinctively breaks into a jog, but before he can turn around the next corner, an invisible force keeps him from going on, causing the other knights to nearly run into him.

_“Emrys!”_

They all freeze at the enraged scream that, without any sliver of doubt, belongs to Morgana.

“Well, you wanted to find me, didn’t you?” a male voice answers, rough and scratchy, and it tingles a memory at the back of Arthur’s mind.

“Who are you? And what do you want with me?”

Arthur’s not sure if he has ever heard Morgana sound so terrified, and it sends a chill down his spine.

“Well, for starters it would be better for everyone involved if you stopped attacking people who are under my protection. Maybe even more importantly though, cease these attempts at playing war. All you’re doing is confirming the general opinion that magic is good for nothing but destruction and death.”

“You dare to—“

“Now that was just rude, Morgana. Really, do you think you could do me in with a knife?”

“My Lord,” a third voice speaks up, deep and gravely but holding a reverence that even Arthur gets to hear seldomly from his subjects.

There’s a low growl. “I’ll be talking to you later. You—”

“Did you bring him here? Did you betray me?” Morgana hisses, venom dripping from her every word and all traces of fear gone. Arthur would feel sorry for whoever she’s talking to if he didn’t have a strong suspicion that it’s Gaius’ captor.

Which reminds him of why they’re actually here, and as intriguing as witnessing—or well, hearing—the whole thing is, he’d like to make sure that Gaius is alright.

Turning towards the knights, he gestures for them to move back down the corridor.

The last words he catches come from the unidentified third voice. “I never intended to help you in the first place, Morgana. High Priestess, you may be, but your goals are coated in darkness, and the Catha are loyal to no one but Emrys.”

Arthur thinks that this would be reassuring if, one, he had any idea who the Catha are and, two—much more importantly—who the hell Emrys is and just why Morgana is this terrified of him.

Shaking his head, he pushes the thoughts to the back of his mind for later and refocuses on his surroundings. The farther they get into the winding tunnels, the keener his hearing seems to get, and he soon picks up on the sound of another set of voices, much calmer than what they’ve just witnessed.

Still, he doesn’t let his guard down and peers around the corner, only to nearly stumble over his own feet upon spotting a familiar face that he was not prepared to find here of all places.

“ _Gwaine?_ ”

The man in questions stiffens before his eyes settle on Arthur, slowly wandering over the other knights, who managed a slightly more dignified entrance into the cavern they’re now standing in.

The ceiling is low and there’s a sort of altar in the middle of the room, Gaius sitting on the edge of it.

“Hello, princess,” Gwaine greets, but his cheerful tone is so obviously forced that Arthur can’t even muster up a glare.

There’s a third person, currently standing at Gaius’ side and talking to him in low tones, though upon Gwaine’s exclamation, they both fall silent and turn towards Arthur.

Gods help him. “You’re the boy we met at the Isle of the Blessed.”

“This is—“

“Thanks, Gwaine, but I’d rather not,” the boy interrupts with a rather impressive glower into his direction. “What are you doing here?”

Behind him, Lancelot huffs. “You do have a liking for that question, don’t you?”

Surprisingly enough, that earns him a small smirk from the boy, though Arthur’s really more concerned with other things right now.

“Gaius are you alright?” he asks, crossing the distance between them and noting how the boy instantly takes a few steps back.

Gaius bows his head. “I’m mostly fine, Arthur. Still a bit rattled from the whole incident but—well. I’d prefer to talk about that in the comfort of my own chambers.”

Arthur nods, picking up on the implication. He’s not done here though. “What are you doing here?” he directs at Gwaine, who instantly pulls a grimace and spreads his hands in front of him.

“Well, I was just travelling through, you see—“

“If you won’t tell me the truth, stuff it,” Arthur growls, unwilling to deal with Gwaine’s particular brand of nonsense right now. It simply doesn’t make sense that he of all people would be here, between Gaius, Morgana, and whoever the hell Emrys and this teenager are.

He glances at Leon, who’s watching both Gwaine and the boy with furrowed brows. “Were they involved in your capture, Gaius?”

Yeah, Arthur should’ve probably thought of that question himself, but he thinks if Gwaine admits to conspiring against Camelot, he might just lose the remains of his sanity.

“No, they rather helped in my—let’s call it rescue, for now,” Gaius says with a raised brow in Gwaine’s direction. “I’m not particularly sure if this was merely a Catha very bad at his profession, or if there’s more going on here than I can see. Though I do have a feeling that you won’t tell us.”

“You know how it is,” Gwaine answers with a shrug and a forced grin. “Don’t ask me questions and I won’t tell you lies.”

Arthur draws in a sharp breath and narrows his eyes. “You will very well tell me what’s going on here. There’s a sorcerer whose mere name scares my sister out of her mind, who has _another_ sorcerer at his side who treats him like a bloody _King_. Then there’s my ex-knight who ran away, with a teenager in tow, saving my court physician. I don’t care what kind of outlaw-life you’ve returned to, you’re still on Camelot’s land and you will tell me what the hell you’re playing at.”

“What did you just say,” Gaius croaks but Arthur ignores him, his glare fixed solely on Gwaine, who looks decidedly too unbothered by his anger.

With a glance at the young boy, he shrugs his shoulder. “You win some, you lose some. I just found a way to—let’s say, to protect Camelot without dealing with your face every day.”

“Arthur, you—“

“You have no right to talk to me like this!”

“Arthur—“

“Can you all shut up!” The shout rings through the small cave, and only years of training keep Arthur from taking a step back at the snarl the boy’s directing at him. “By the goddess, you really _are_ a prick. Just be grateful your court physician is fine—do you have no common sense at all? Did you ever learn the meaning of the word self-preservation?”

Gwaine reaches a hand out but quickly snatches it back when the glare is turned on him.

“I’m serious, you wouldn’t survive a week without the people who are helping you and you don’t even know, much less appreciate it. Do you care what it’s like for them? No, because you’re the bloody _King_ and walk around, demanding and ordering as if you own the world. Well, surprise, you don’t. We’re going to leave now, so you can take your physician, _who needs a lot of rest,_ back home. Preferably before your insane sister wakes up again.” 

The silence after the rant is sudden and filled with disbelieving, stunned glances, but neither Arthur nor any of his knights seem able to move when the boy grabs Gwaine by the shoulder and hauls him past their group.

He stops at the exit, glancing back at Gaius. “I didn’t mean you, obviously. I hope you’re back to health soon.”

Nobody says a word, snippets of conversation drifting through the corridor back to them.

“What the hell was that?”

“Emrys was getting impatient.”

“Doesn’t he always?”

“Shut up, Gwaine.”

“Only if you stop teaching Aithusa how to set my clothes—“

Arthur’s not sure that he hasn’t actually lost his sanity over the last few hours and this is all just a figment of his deeply troubled mind.

“What name did he just say,” Gaius finally whispers, and when Arthur turns to him, he startles at how pale and shaken he suddenly looks.

Exchanging a look with Leon, he recalls the name. “Emrys—Morgana called him that as well. Do you know him?”

Gaius stares at him, his eyes wide but vacant as if he’s far away. “That was—” Gaius starts, but breaks off again and shakes his head. “We should get out of here first if Morgana might still be around.”

Arthur wants to refuse, wants to demand answers and explanations for everything that has happened over the last hour, but he can see that Gaius is still shaken and he has no illusion about their chances against Morgana.

There will be enough time back at Camelot to talk, and it might be better if that conversation takes place between Arthur and Gaius alone. 

* * *

Back in Camelot, Arthur waits two days for Gaius to rest until his patience wears out.

To his surprise, Gaius is already bustling around his workshop when he enters, after spending most of the day at court.

“Ah Arthur, I’ve been expecting you,” Gaius greets him with a small smile, but there’s a tension to his shoulders that isn’t usually there. Still, Arthur stays quiet as he takes the familiar seat in front of the fire and waits for Gaius to join him.

“Are you doing alright?” he asks as soon as Gaius hands him a goblet of wine, despite his need for answers more worried about the possible effects of the whole ordeal.

Gaius smiles and pats his arms before giving a low sigh. “As I already said, it wasn’t that bad. Which is what I don’t understand because the Catha—a group of followers of the Old Religion—usually excel in torture.”

Arthur’s stomach clenches at the mere idea and he grinds his teeth together. “What did they want from you anyway? And what do you mean?”

“Well,” Gaius starts, a crease forming between his brows as he stares into the fire. “Morgana is searching for someone—you remember the name that was mentioned by both Mordred and herself?”

“Mordred?” Arthur asks before he can focus on the other parts, though he blames it on the strange familiarity the name elicits.

Gaius raises an eyebrow at him. “Yes, the boy who was with Gwaine, did you not recognise him? You saved him from your father a few years ago, together with Morgana and Merlin.”

Now that Gaius mentions it, he suddenly remembers, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “ _That’s_ where I know him from. He was at the Isle of the Blessed as well when we meant to close the veil. What does he have to do with all this?”

A shrug is his answer, and Gaius shakes his head. “I have no idea, Arthur, though his use of the name Emrys only lends credibility to it as he is—or at least was—a Druid.”

“Who is Emrys, then? You seemed shocked to hear the name, and for Morgana to fear him so much…” He gestures helplessly, the few days not nearly enough to lessen the sensation of discomfort in his spine when he recalls the panic in her voice.

“Emrys,” Gaius starts, and there’s a slight tremble in his voice until he takes a deep breath. “It was what the Druids called Merlin, his name of prophecy. There is no logical reason why anyone should be called by it but him. The Catha who abducted me did so under orders from Morgana—she wants to know his real identity. But again, I am certain that he did not seriously try to get any information out of me. When I told him that to my knowledge, Emrys is dead, he stopped his feeble efforts altogether.”

But Arthur’s mind has stopped processing anything after the first few sentences. His heart is racing in his chest and his hands are shaking, the small flicker of hope that has been refusing to die flaring bright and strong. “So, that would mean he’s alive, right?” he finally says, though it’s more of a hoarse whisper.

“Arthur—I don’t think so. There might be other explanations, magic finding another way to bring the prophecy to pass, the Druids believing they were mistaken about Merlin because it seemed too easy an end to something as monumental as his destiny, someone impersonating him,” Gaius says quietly, and his voice is full of apology but it still cuts deeply into Arthur’s skin. “If Merlin was alive, he would’ve let us know by now.”

And that’s the problem, isn’t it? Because Arthur can’t argue that point, doesn’t want to believe that Merlin would leave all of them to mourn him—at least not Gaius, his mother, his friends. But he also can’t stop himself from hoping regardless, from coming up with explanations and excuses and a hundred reasons for why his stubborn belief isn’t misplaced.

“But maybe he—I don’t know, maybe he doesn’t remember, or something happened or—you know how he is. While my father was still alive, he might’ve not wanted to put anyone into danger, or—“

Gaius’ hand on his shoulder stops his desperate ramblings and he clenches his eyes shut.

“Trust me, I want to believe that as much as you do. But even if any of these were true, how could he have possibly survived? He was unable to do magic, many witnessed his death, and there is no other reasonable explanation for how he could’ve survived the fire,” Gaius says, and when Arthur finally looks up, he can see the tears brimming in Gaius’ eyes.

“You’re right,” he presses out, turning his head away and scolding himself for giving in to that traitorous voice. Try as he might, the hope in his chest refuses to abate; too many strange coincidences, too many dreams, and maybe also too much longing for it to be true. “I’m sorry,” he adds anyway because it isn’t fair to drag anyone else along on his march towards madness.

“Did you see the man who Morgana called Emrys?” Gaius asks after a few beats of silence, his voice already more collected, and Arthur shakes his head.

“No, I just heard him. He sounded… old, I think. Leon said that the man who rescued him from Morgana was old as well, but he couldn’t remember much of him after the chaos of his escape.”

Gaius merely hums, his head tilted in contemplation. “We will have to wait and see. Whoever it is, he seems to have the loyalty of at least a few people in the magical community and doesn’t appear to mean harm to Camelot.”

“Let’s hope it stays that way,” Arthur murmurs, taking a sip of his wine. The fire is crackling in front of him and he watches the flames dance, wondering how things are still this complicated and convoluted. For one answer, three new questions appear out of nowhere.

Which only reminds him of what he was thinking about before Gaius was kidnapped. “Gaius—do you remember when Morgause came to Camelot the first time and what happened afterwards?”

“Yes, sire,” Gaius answers slowly, caution suddenly colouring his tone and his shoulders stiffening slightly.

Arthur swallows around the lump in his throat, around the part of himself that wants to hold on to some plausible deniability. “Is what she told me about my mother true? What she showed me—about my father and the circumstances of my birth?”

For long moments, Gaius doesn’t say anything, his fingers tapping a restless rhythm against the goblet in his hand. Eventually, he turns his head to meet Arthur’s eyes, and there’s a silent apology in there somewhere. “I promised your father to take this knowledge to my grave, Arthur, but—“

“You—I don’t want you to break your promise,” Arthur rushes to say, holding up a hand to stop Gaius from interrupting him. “Just tell me—did Merlin lie to me that day when he stopped me?”

Gaius sighs, the sound tired and older than Arthur likes it to hear. “Yes.”

A few, deep breaths do nothing to calm his racing heart or to lessen the bitterness that’s growing in the back of his throat, but he needs to know—even though he’s pretty certain that he already does. “Why would he do that?”

A small, sad smile stretches over Gaius’ face, and he squeezes Arthur’s shoulder briefly. “Because you never would've forgiven yourself if you had killed your father. We may resent and judge someone's actions, but sometimes we can't help but love them anyway, in spite of all their faults and the pain they've caused us.”

It's bittersweet, to have it confirmed out loud by someone else. Mostly though, there’s a deep, warm sense of relief that despite everything, Merlin doesn't seem that much of a stranger after all; that in his essence, Arthur did know him.

Then again - wouldn't the Merlin he thought he knew have come home by now if he was still alive? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually have the headcanon that due to her gifts as a seer, Morgana can't, or at least struggles a lot, to use scrying as a method. We see both Nimueh and Morgause use it and while it certainly could be a mere plot-hole on the show-writers part, I like things logical and with explanation, so that's what I came up with and am rolling with here. 😂
> 
> As you might've noticed, I changed the estimated chapter count to 14, which is how long it will actually be ( ~~they just fucking talk so damn much damn it.~~ ) The fic is finished now at ~125k words, so this chapter marks about the halfway point! ❤️


	8. and you will miss me in your bones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your comments and kudos etc. ❤️
> 
> Chapter title is from [Taylor Swift - the lakes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tOHcAc3r2kw)

Merlin’s walking down the beach with Aithusa circling above him, enjoying the first warm rays of the spring sun, when his magic picks up on someone advancing on them.

Since he doesn’t need to hide his magic and uses it more, it has become increasingly obvious how much of himself he’s actually locked away; his senses are sharper, he’s less clumsy, and what once manifested as a vague feeling when something was about to happen is now more of a sharp intuition.

Right now, there’s nothing to worry about though and if his magic hadn’t picked up on the familiar presence, Aithusa’s excited chirp of “’Aine!” would’ve been a give-away.

“Very good, sweetheart,” he murmurs, then stops and turns to let Gwaine catch up with him.

He conjures a few sparkling balls of water and lets them float for Aithusa to chase before he grins at Gwaine. “Got tired of Mordred begging you for just ‘ _one more round_ ’ of training?”

Gwaine snorts and turns his eyes upwards, tracking Aithusa. “Seriously, he’s learning really fast. I’m pretty sure he’d beat you easily by now.”

“Yes well, I don’t need a sword,” Merlin retorts with a shrug and a small smirk, watching as Aithusa nearly crashes face-first into the sea as she attempts to catch one of the bubbles.

“I know,” Gwaine says with a grin, bumping their shoulders together. “I’ve seen the two of you fight as well last week, which only makes me wonder more why he’s so set on sword-fighting.”

Merlin just shakes his head; he’s not completely sure himself but he has his suspicions. They aren’t his to share though. “As did many others. I’m receiving gifts again,” he says instead, pursing his lips as he thinks of the clothes, potion supplies, and books he keeps finding on his doorstep.

“Only you would complain about that,” Gwaine says with the tone of the long-suffering, but he seems to shake it off quickly enough. “Why are you brooding at the beach like a sailors’ wife waiting for her lovers return, anyway?”

Merlin’s first impulse is to outright deny it, but he promised himself to get better about keeping Gwaine at arms-length and pulls them to a stop to sit down. “I’m thinking about leaving,” he admits, watching with a fond smile as Aithusa clumsily lands between them and settles her head on Merlin’s leg.

She’s as large as Arthur’s hunting dogs by now and is just learning that she does not fit into his lap any longer. It doesn’t keep her from being overly affectionate, but Merlin would be lying if he claimed to mind.

“Is this still about what happened with Alator and Gaius?” Gwaine asks, leaning back on his elbows. “His reasoning did make sense—Morgana would’ve found someone else to do it, and I told you—“

“That he didn’t harm Gaius, I know,” Merlin interrupts with a dismissive wave of his hand. “It’s not about that. I was just thinking that it might be a good idea to find out if there are places like this in other kingdoms, to make some more connections to prevent them from siding with her.”

“You’re still mad about it though,” Gwaine states, completely ignoring the second half of Merlin’s statement.

He huffs, glancing down at him. “Of course I am, he should’ve told me beforehand. It would’ve spared us a lot of trouble, like, you know _, running into Arthur and the knights_.”

Gwaine’s silent for a moment but then sighs. “I’m not an expert on leadership or the refusal of it but—you can’t keep saying that you want them to make their own decisions and not view you as a ruler, and then get mad when they actually follow that request.”

“I know, I just—“ he starts, but shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair. “I know that no matter what I say, they look up to me, and there’s all this responsibility and I don’t want to disappoint them, but I also don’t know what I’m doing half the time. And this—I never thought anyone would target _Gaius_ , and I feel bad that it even happened and…” he trails off, unable to put his frustration into words.

“’Lin!” Aithusa cries, burying her head in his stomach and flapping her wings. It only results in whirled up sand, but it makes Merlin laugh, and she gives a content purr.

Gwaine hums, fingers running through the sand at his sides and he glances at Merlin before he takes a deep breath and sits up straight. “I still think that a lot of things would be easier if you returned to Camelot. Most of all though, _you_ would be better—I know you don’t want to talk about it, but I can see that you’re not doing as well as you want Mordred and me to believe,” he says quietly, and there’s a hesitance to him that keeps Merlin from snapping or leaving instantly.

Clenching his jaw, he shakes his head. “I’m doing just fine. Nothing has happened to anyone since I’ve left, and there’s no longer a place for me in Camelot.”

It’s not like he never thinks about it, never wishes that he could return, that things could be different. His dreams are still full of Arthur and all they’ve gone through, and he misses Gaius and Gwen and Lancelot and _Arthur_ every single day. But it has been too long, he changed too much, and he’s still not ready to face what awaits him back there—doesn’t know if he ever will be. He can’t go back to hiding, isn’t even remotely ready to deal with all of the inevitable questions and, probably most of all, can’t face Arthur’s anger.

He isn’t even sure that he could face Arthur being in love and probably engaged by now if he _doesn’t_ despise Merlin—or face how selfish that makes him.

“Oh, sure you do,” Gwaine says, pulling him out of his thoughts. He’s not sure the alternative is much better. “You don’t even send Arthur warnings anymore; don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

“Not much use if he doesn’t believe them, is there?” he bites out, stubbornly pushing away the memory of desperate pleading and hope that made his heart ache and his resolve waver.

Gwaine groans, flopping onto his back. “Don’t you think that between those warnings and what happened with Gaius, they might suspect that you’re alive anyway? Not to mention that there wasn’t a single execution for the use of magic since yours, so maybe that’s a sign?”

“Oh, of course,” he drawls, leaning forward to hide his expression from Gwaine. “They surely assume I’m alive because immortality is such a common explanation, and sending warnings through dreams isn’t something nobody has achieved before. And I guess the lack of genocide is Arthur’s way of putting out a sign to say, _‘Hey Merlin, I know you’re alive and I don’t mind the magic and the lies, so please come home_.’”

“Cynicism doesn’t suit you,” Gwaine sighs, but he settles a warm hand on Merlin’s back that looses the knot in his chest slightly. “Look, maybe you need to take a leap of faith. Arthur’s still important to you—I saw you when Mordred brought you back from the incident with Queen Annis—“

“Don’t—please Gwaine, don’t. I don’t want to talk about it, okay? Of course he’s still important to me, I—“ he breaks off, the words _love him_ burning in his throat like poison. He can't bring himself to say them though, does everything to ignore their truth every single day.

Considering what happened the last time he saw Arthur, he's doing a pretty poor job at it, but he's trying to forget that just as much. Not that Mordred and Gwaine are particularly helpful, especially after Mordred had managed to bring him back home and he didn’t speak to anyone for a week, only to continue brushing off each of their attempts to make him talk about it.

But really, what good would it do? There's nothing they could offer him to make it hurt any less, and he'd rather do without their pity. He just holds on to the hope that it'll fade eventually, one day, maybe.

Staying away is _safe_. It allows him to live one day after the other, and as long as he focuses on the good side of it—meeting others of his kind, learning about magic, being able to keep Aithusa by his side—he’s doing alright. Not fine, but alright. It’s enough, it has to be.

“Look,” he says with a sigh, turning to meet Gwaine’s eyes when he’s sure that his expression won’t give him away. “I know that you miss Camelot and while I enjoy having you here with me, I would understand if you want to go back. But I can’t, and I won’t. At least not anytime soon, and especially not while my very existence is still outlawed.”

It’s only partly an excuse too. He has got used to being able to practise his magic freely, and apart from all the issues of explaining how he’s alive, he honestly doesn’t want to go back to fearing execution—successful or not. Not to mention that other people could take the fall for him, could be used against him.

As much as the pressure of destiny is bearing down on him among his own people, his new life allows him freedom he’s never had before and he’s not willing to trade it for a golden cage again.

Gwaine watches him for long moments, sharp eyes taking in his expression and his posture, but eventually, he just grins. “Nah, I’ve always said that I’m better suited for the life of a vagabond than that of a knight in shining armour. If that’s among magic people and mad Druid kids who are obsessed with sword-fighting, then that’s fine with me.”

Merlin smiles, seeing it for the silent vow of friendship that it is, and finally relaxes. “Alright then. I also think we shouldn’t leave before Beltane—I don’t fancy sleeping in the forest while there’s still frost at night.”

“Whatever you say, oh great magical leader!”

“Aithusa, want to do some target-practise again?”

As Gwaine jumps to his feet to put some distance between himself and the yelping, excited dragon, Merlin thinks that he should be more grateful for Gwaine’s stubborn, silent persistence to maintain their friendship.

* * *

Merlin’s leaning against a tree, his cloak wrapped tightly around himself and the hood covering half of his face. He’s watching the Druid shrine from his vantage point at the top of the ravine with a mixture of heavy sorrow, trepidation, and wariness.

The suffering and violence that has taken place here seem to wrap around him, the wind carrying whispered cries and pleas for mercy, and the urge to turn on his heel and leave the spirits to their rest is nearly overwhelming.

Unfortunately, the knights of Camelot are an idiotic bunch who serve under the son of an ignorant tyrant and—who could’ve predicted—got themselves into another mess by their utter lack of knowledge.

Seeing that he doesn’t want to see Elyan executed for something he’s not to blame for, Merlin has to stay put and wait for the child-possessing-Elyan to turn up. At least Merlin’s sure that he will, and that he’s going to be able to end the possession, although he wishes the child could find his rest. But seeing that Uther’s dead and would never feel remorse even if he weren’t, he doesn’t have that many options.

Maybe he should send an anonymous petition to Arthur once he’s done here, proposing that the King and the knights receive basic, theoretical training in recognising magic for the sake of their safety—based on the fact that he did unknowingly employ a warlock as his manservant for years. That might just work if he knows anything about the prat’s ego.

A crack pulls him out of his mental ranting, and he straightens carefully, one hand on the vial of sedative-potion in his pocket.

He has to bite back a whole litany of curses when not Elyan, but Arthur walks into the space beneath him.

Shit, but Merlin’s not even in disguise and unlike a possessed Elyan, he can’t rely on Arthur not remembering him if he catches a glimpse of Merlin’s face—not even he is that oblivious.

Merlin would also _really_ prefer to stay as far away from him as possible. Already, his heart is pounding against his ribs and his throat is dry as sand, every irrational part of him screaming to call out, to pretend nothing has changed, if only for a second.

Running through his actual, more reasonable options, he decides to stay where he is for the time being. Arthur’s standing with his back turned to him, so if it comes to the worst, Merlin can always stun him first. A part of him is curious what Arthur is planning to do—he’s pretty sure that Gaius must’ve figured out what’s going on and he doesn’t think Arthur would kill Elyan if he can help it.

Elyan appears just after Arthur put down his sword, and Merlin watches in mounting confusion as Arthur kneels.

“What happened to you is my fault, and I am sorry. I led the raid on your camp, and I—I was young, and stupid, and desperate to prove myself. I told my men to spare women and children but they—I lost control and just—just froze and—I’m so sorry,” Arthur says, and his voice is rough and shaking.

Elyan is walking closer to Arthur, and Merlin has to hold himself back from intervening. Even from where he stands, he can see the trembling of Arthur’s shoulders and how his hands are digging into the ground at his sides. Despite knowing that this is something Arthur has to do—to atone for what he did, and maybe also for himself—Merlin just wants to step up to him, to ease some of the agony that’s pouring off of him in waves.

“Nothing I say can erase the suffering I’ve caused; I know that. I still—I still hear the screams, dream of that night and I—I can only promise that now that I am King, nothing like this will ever happen again,” Arthur chokes out, his head bowing. “Things are already changing, I promise—I _swear_ to you, your people will be treated with the respect they deserve. What happened in this place is one of the biggest regrets of my life.”

Arthur draws a shuddering breath, and Merlin has to strain his ears to catch the following words. “I—I’ve lost the person who was most important to me to the hatred of magic, and I will do everything in my power to prevent anyone else from suffering like you and him.”

Merlin can’t breathe; he’s swaying on his feet, only the tree behind him keeping him upright, and he has to bite down on his knuckles to keep any sounds from escaping. He barely takes it in when the Druid boy forgives Arthur, his spirit leaving Elyan’s body, and he still must’ve made some sort of noise because Arthur’s scanning the tree line, suddenly alert.

It doesn’t matter; through the strange haze that’s blurring Merlin’s thoughts, there’s a flicker of burning, bright hope reigniting in his chest, soothing the hollow ache he’s got so used to. And even though he knows that he’s going to regret this later, he allows it to grow, to spread warmth through his limbs, to rekindle some of the faith he hasn’t been able to muster up in nearly a year now.

At least he does still notice when Iseldir, Ambika, and Urias step into the ravine, thankfully drawing Arthur’s attention away from the spot where Merlin’s still poorly hiding.

 _‘Do not worry, Emrys,’_ Iseldir speaks in his mind, though Merlin’s not sure how reassuring that actually is. Sometimes, it only promises more problems when Iseldir says these kinds of things.

“Arthur Pendragon,” Iseldir says out loud, bowing his head. “Your apology has been accepted not only by the child but by the Druids as well. As a sign of our gratitude, we have a message for you.”

Oh no, Merlin has an awful feeling about this and—

“Do not lose hope,” the three of them speak at once, and Merlin takes a second to give Arthur credit for taking this all in calmly. “All is not as lost as you’ve been fearing for the past year, and now it won’t be long until destiny rights the disruption that has been put into its path. Two halves of a whole cannot exist by themselves indefinitely.”

 _‘You’ve_ got _to be kidding me,_ ’ he mutters but he doesn’t get an answer.

“O—kay?” Arthur says, confusion written all over his face, and a slightly hysteric corner of Merlin’s mind thinks that it serves him right to be the one dealing with cryptic magic users for once. Mostly though, he’s pretty sure that this was meant for both of them.

Before he can do something truly stupid, like revealing himself to Arthur or trying to get a straight answer out of the three exasperating Druids, he silently takes his leave, deciding to ignore everything that happened tonight. For the sake of his sanity, if nothing else.

* * *

“Fuck! I should’ve taken care of him months ago,” Merlin snarls, barely keeping himself from wrecking his chambers while a bag is packing itself, and Aithusa is fluttering around in agitation.

Mordred’s packing as well, but he offers him a tight smile. “Pre-emptive murder is not the way to go, Emrys. You’ve learnt that.”

He would’ve felt bad at the reminder if not for Gwaine clapping his hands together and glaring at both of them while pacing the length of the room. “Not to interrupt your nice deliberation of ethics, but we don’t have time for philosophical takes now.”

That, at least, is very true even though Merlin desperately wishes it weren’t.

“Right,” he breathes, trying to calm himself enough to think of a plan. “We need to get Arthur out of there, and as many others as we can. Looks like I’m returning to Camelot after all, huh?”

“Emrys—“

“Merlin—“

“In disguise, obviously,” he interrupts, holding up his hands. “The only person who can’t see me is Gaius and I doubt he’s hanging around Arthur, who I’m sure will insist on dying instead of fleeing.”

“So, magic?” Mordred asks, a faint smirk easing the tense lines of his face while Gwaine groans.

Merlin rubs a hand over his face and nods. “We’ll go in, find Arthur, help in any way we can, and get out again. I think Leon, Lancelot, and a few of the other knights are evacuating the citizens by the looks of it. Even they know that right now, there’s no chance against Morgana and her army,” he says with a sigh. “Gwaine, you should wait for us outside of the city, we can both only teleport one person safely and—“

“Only one sword, yes, I know,” Gwaine interrupts with a sigh, his jaw clenching in frustration. “Think you can teach me some magic after this is over?”

“Whatever you say,” Merlin mutters, glancing at Aithusa. “I’ll call Kilgharrah to have Aithusa stay with him until we return, or I call them. Sorry, sweetheart.”

She hangs her head and makes a miserable sound, but as susceptible as he usually is to her antics, he won’t take her to Camelot with him.

“Where do we go, once we get them out?” Mordred asks, and it’s not as if Merlin hasn’t considered the question but he simply doesn’t have an answer yet.

Shaking his head, he shoulders his bag and gestures vaguely. “We figure something out. All I know is that I won’t take Arthur here, that’s a risk I’m not willing to take.”

“What about your hometown?” Gwaine asks, head tilted as he holds the door open for them.

“Absolutely not. How am I supposed to explain that?” Merlin scoffs, his chest clenching at the mere idea. He doesn’t think he could handle seeing his mother without being himself, on top of dealing with Arthur.

Kilgharrah’s already waiting for them when they arrive at the beach, however it is that he’s doing this. “Good luck, young warlock. Call me if you need anything,” he says before taking off with Aithusa in tow, and despite all the stress, Merlin appreciates the offer for what it is.

After he has changed his appearance, he takes a deep breath to steel himself and smiles tightly at both of them. “Right, I’m taking Gwaine. Teleport to the castle of the ancient kings, it’s not far from Camelot but empty right now,” he says with a nod at Mordred.

Seconds later, they all reappear in the place they’ve used the last time Morgana and Morgause took Camelot. He really hopes that this won’t become a habit.

As soon as he has his footing back, he gets out the crystal and focuses on finding Arthur. There’s so much adrenaline coursing through his veins that the sight doesn’t even cause his heart to miss a beat as it usually would, though it’s much worse than that when he spots Arthur just as he’s getting grazed by a sword.

“Fuck that,” he growls, throwing the crystal at Gwaine. “Wait here,” he instructs before grabbing Mordred’s hand and teleporting them right into the middle of it.

“Emrys, what the—“

“Duck!” he shouts, pulling Mordred down and sending the mercenaries close to them flying. Spotting Arthur staring around himself in confusion, he huffs a breath and grabs his arm, hauling him to the side of the courtyard.

He’s just in time. Another battalion is marching over the drawbridge, with Morgana and Agravaine at the head. Unfortunately, he can pinpoint the exact second Arthur spots them as well, his face crumbling as he sags against Merlin’s side, all the breath leaving him in a rush.

No matter what Mordred says, he _should_ have dealt with the bastard months ago, if only to spare Arthur this moment.

There’s no use in mourning the living though and as Arthur’s just starting to struggle against him, Merlin thinks he might just have bigger problems right now.

“Let me go! Who do you think you are to hold me back? I’m the—“

“King of Camelot, yes, I’m aware,” Merlin snaps, tightening his grip on Arthur’s arm. “You’re also going to be dead in thirty seconds straight if you storm out there now. Add it to the list of times I’ve saved your life.”

Somehow, that seems to calm Arthur enough to regard him for the first time. “You’re—Emrys, right?”

To say that Arthur’s use of _that_ name makes him wary and uncomfortable would be an understatement, but he gives a slow nod anyway. “Yes, and we need to get you out of here.”

“I’m not going to abandon my people,” Arthur growls, straightening up but instantly flinching at the movement, one hand flying up to the side of his chest.

“You’re injured, your knights are evacuating the people, and _I’m sorry,_ but right now there’s nothing you can do,” Merlin says as calmly as possible, trying to ignore how his chest clenches at the desperation and fury warring in Arthur’s eyes.

Arthur sets his jaw and stubbornly shakes his head. “Can’t you heal me? I’d rather go down fighting than fleeing like a coward.”

“I could—“ Mordred starts, but at a glare from Merlin, shuts up again.

Taking a deep breath, he puts his hands on Arthur’s shoulders and pushes past the lump in his throat. “It’s no use to anyone if you die in a hopeless battle. We’re going to reclaim Camelot—you did it before. But we need to leave. _Now_ ,” he urges, praying inwardly that Arthur will just see sense for once.

He doesn’t allow himself to linger on how it’s the first actual conversation they’ve had in so long and that Arthur is still listening instead of trying to run him through on the spot.

“I—“

“Emrys!”

The sharp point of a sword settles between Merlin’s shoulder blades and he doesn’t even think before letting his magic react instinctively. A dull thud sounds from behind him and he turns, eyes widening when he finds Percival lying sprawled out on the floor.

Arthur immediately draws his sword, his face contorting into a furious snarl.

“It’s just a sleeping spell,” Merlin rushes out, holding his hands up. “I can wake him up anytime, we can take him with us.”

“Are you going to do the same to me if I don’t agree?” Arthur spits, but he lowers his sword slightly.

Merlin holds his gaze and raises his chin. “If that’s what it takes to keep you alive, yes. I guess you’d prefer it over being made to comply more easily?”

There are long moments of silence in which Arthur’s fists clench tightly and a muscle in his jaw is jumping as he grinds his teeth, but eventually, he deflates and gives a sharp nod. “I’ll come with you. Awake and in control of my senses, if you don’t mind.”

For a second, Merlin can only stare—he did not expect Arthur to go along with this under any circumstances, considering that he only knows Merlin as some sorcerer who saved his backside for unknown reasons a few times. He’s not going to question it though, they’ve already wasted enough time.

“Excellent choice,” he says, trying to muster up a reassuring smile but most likely failing miserably. Turning to Mordred, he tilts his head in Percival’s direction. “Can you take him? Just get ready—I’m going to take out a few of Morgana’s men before we leave.”

Mordred smirks faintly and nods, eyes trailing over the still chaotic courtyard. “Want some help?”

“If you think you’re still going to get the transportation spell right afterwards,” Merlin offers with a shrug.

Arthur’s staring between the two of them, eyes slightly narrowed but more in curiosity than mistrust if Merlin’s not completely delusional.

“Right,” Merlin says, shaking the thought. “Keep a tight grip on my arm. Do not let go, do not fight the sensation, and no worries if you feel a bit queasy upon landing, it’s normal.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, just grabs Arthur’s arm tightly with one hand and raising the other in accord with Mordred, letting his already agitated magic wash through the courtyard. The ground starts trembling and the wind picks up, forming a narrow whirlwind that rushes through the rows of soldiers and slams them into walls and stone boulders and anything else that’s in the way.

Next to him, he can hear Mordred incanting a fire-spell that catches a group of Morgana’s men who were in the process of raiding houses by surprise.

Just as the first of them turn their attention in their direction, he ends his spell. “Let’s go!” he shouts, waiting to make sure that Mordred’s gone before he wraps his magic around Arthur and himself.

Arthur drops to his knees as soon as they land, nearly pulling Merlin down with him.

“By the Goddess, that’s horrible,” Arthur groans, his breath coming in short pants while he presses a hand against his chest. “Why would anyone want to travel like this, ever?”

“You get used to it,” Gwaine says from where he’s leaning against the original round table, grinning at Arthur’s startled look. “Hello, Princess.”

Merlin clears his throat and barely keeps from rolling his eyes. “Let Mordred heal you before you go on, otherwise we won’t be getting much travelling done either way. We need to get away, out of Camelot at best.”

A frown flickers across Arthur’s face and he musters Mordred for long moments before he nods slowly. “Can’t get much worse, I suppose.”

Mordred huffs. “So, gratitude _really_ is no defining treat of yours, is it? Sit down and pull your chainmail up.”

Merlin turns away as Arthur does as he’s told, the whole scope of the situation they’re in finally hitting him. Morgana has captured Camelot despite his best efforts and, maybe worst of all, Arthur is actually here, let them take him out of the castle by using magic. Is actually talking to him, not like he used to, of course, but—but like there’s at least some modicum of trust.

And he doesn’t know who Merlin is.

Biting his tongue to keep from cursing, he turns to Gwaine, only to find him already watching him with knowing eyes.

“Had any idea where we could go?” Gwaine asks, tapping his sword against the floor in front of him while glancing over at where Mordred’s talking lowly to Arthur. “Aside from that, do you plan on leaving Percy in—whatever that is he’s in?”

Right, he should probably take care of that. He waits until Mordred’s done with Arthur but avoids looking at him when he asks, “When he wakes up, can you please assure him that we didn’t take you against your will, or have you under an enchantment?”

Much to his surprise, Arthur snorts softly before catching himself and nods, gesturing for Merlin to go on.

As Percival slowly wakes up, Arthur gets back to his feet, eyes lingering on Gwaine for a moment. “We could go to the—a village where a friend of mine was from. His mother still lives there, she’d take us in for a few days, and it’s just beyond the border of Escetir.”

It takes every little ounce of willpower Merlin possesses to not let the sudden terror surging through his chest show in his expression, but he can still feel the blood drain from his face. He just hopes that his beard and the dim light hide most of it because Arthur is watching him curiously.

“Sounds good to me,” Gwaine says with a shrug, pushing himself off the table to walk over to Percival, who’s just in the process of getting his bearings back.

Merlin bites the insides of his cheeks. “To reach Escetir, we’d have to move past Camelot again, and we have to travel by foot. Mordred and I can only take one person each,” he tries to argue, his voice rougher than he would’ve liked.

Being this close to Arthur is already bad enough; his whole perception feels off-kilter and it’s like his heart has forgotten how to beat a normal rhythm. He’s not sure if he can take seeing his mother on top of that.

“It’s easier to reach Ealdor if we travel through the forest of Brechfa from here, and Morgana’s going to search for us either way,” Arthur instantly rebukes his argument, and damn it, Merlin knows that he’s right and there’s nothing he could bring up against this.

It’s the closest, most convenient spot from where they are, not to mention that he hasn’t come up with a better idea yet anyway.

Taking a measured breath, he feigns a shrug. “Alright then.”

It feels a bit like sealing his own fate, and the oddly disappointed expression that flashes over Arthur’s face doesn’t help matters.

 _‘Are you alright?’_ Mordred asks within his mind while Arthur moves over to talk to Percival, and Merlin gives a mental sigh.

 _‘He’s talking about my hometown. I’m not particularly happy about visiting my mother, to be honest, especially in disguise,’_ he answers dryly, seeing no use in trying to lie.

Mordred goes oddly still where he’s leaning against a wall, and his eyes flicker to Arthur. _‘He’d visit your mother after what happened—what he_ thinks _happened to you?’_

It’s a fair question, but not one Merlin has an answer to, so he just shrugs. _‘Once we get there, I can figure out where the knights took off to, and hopefully, we can get out of there again quickly.’_

A hum is his only response, and he doesn’t need to look at Mordred to know that he has his doubts about that. Merlin’s not so sure himself, but everything about this situation feels so far out of his control that he doesn’t know what to focus on first.

Shoving it all away as best as he can, he clears his throat. “We should leave. The sun is just setting, and we should travel a fair bit while it’s dark.”

Apparently, Percival has already come to terms with their new circumstances, and they leave the ruins shortly after.

They mostly travel in silence, the tension between them thick and stifling. Arthur and Percy keep chancing glances at Gwaine, obvious in their confusion about why he’s running around with two sorcerers who don’t bother hiding their magic.

Merlin has to devote most of his energy to _not panicking_. He’s carefully staying ahead of the group to look at Arthur as little as possible, but he’s still acutely aware of his presence, of the eyes burning into his neck. He's not sure which urge would win out if he let it; the one to flee, or to cross that infinite distance stretching between them.

Seeing that he can do neither, he shoulders on, eyes set on the path in front of him and trying to focus on nothing but the thrumming of his heart.

He’s so inattentive that he only senses the men closing in on them when Morgana’s magic washes over him, blasting them all off their feet.

Merlin’s magic lashes out in response, buying them seconds of valuable time, and they all scramble to their feet, more stumbling than running as they flee. He keeps a tight grip on Gwaine’s wrist and shouts directions into Mordred’s mind while his eyes are fixed on Arthur, but he can feel them getting closer.

“Bloody hell,” he curses, twisting around as much as he can to send another blast of magic at Morgana. He nearly falls, but Gwaine pulls him along until they reach a small outcrop of rocks where Arthur and Mordred are already cowering.

They can hear horses approaching but they’re slowing down, and they’re all holding their breaths. Merlin doesn’t dare to cast a ward to keep them hidden, fearing Morgana might notice it, and he’s already running through his chances of defeating her and her men if it comes down to it. 

“Leave them. It’s getting too dark, and they won’t get far,” Morgana’s voice cuts through the silence. “I’m sure we’ll get this one to talk sooner or later.”

Only years of experience allow Merlin to catch Arthur before he can blow their cover. He ignores the glare he receives for his troubles, though he’d be lying if he said that he wasn’t worried for Percival.

“He won’t talk, and she’ll keep him alive in the hopes that he will,” he says quietly after the sound of hooves has died away, and even though the reluctance is obvious in Arthur’s expression, Merlin knows that he can see the logic behind it.

Still, it wouldn’t be Arthur if he gave in so easily. “Can’t you—I don’t know, transport yourself into Camelot and get out those who were captured? Or just fight her? You’re powerful, aren’t you?”

He’d find it ironic how easily Arthur’s willing to rely on his magic if it didn’t leave such a bitter taste in the back of his throat.

“Morgana will have installed measures to guard the dungeons after our attack,” Mordred says quietly. “And we should preserve our strength for actually retaking Camelot.”

Arthur huffs. “Can you at least transport us to Ealdor, now that you’d only have to take Gwaine and me?”

Merlin’s silent, contemplating the possibility and trying to keep a hold on his emotions at just how _Arthur_ this is.

 _‘Emrys, if you want to keep up the ageing spell for who knows how long, you really do need to take care. And I need to as well, we don’t know when we’ll need to defend ourselves again,’_ Mordred says, and Merlin sighs because he’s right.

 _‘He’s not going to like it, and I can hardly explain it,_ ’ he grumbles, rubbing a hand over his face.

Mordred snorts next to him, the sound decidedly not mentally provided _. ‘Tough luck. He can be happy to be alive.’_

“Oi, stop that,” Gwaine mutters, glaring between the two of them. He has got annoyingly good at spotting when they’re conversing silently and suffice to say, he’s not a fan.

“We should make camp for the night,” Merlin says with a sigh and an apologetic smile. “I can’t sense them anymore, so we should be alright until the morning once I’ve set wards.”

He’s just getting up from his crouch when Arthur’s hand closes around his wrist. The touch startles him so badly he nearly jumps, and he stares at the point of contact incomprehensibly before lifting his eyes to meet Arthur’s.

Snatching his hand back as if burned, Arthur clears his throat and gets up as well, his shoulders straight. “You haven’t answered me.”

It’s that imperious tone he uses when he feels out of his depth and Merlin’s helpless against the way his lips twitch. Turning away, he shrugs. “We can’t. As Mordred said, we need to save our strength.”

“But—“

“Believe it or not, we do know more about magic than you,” Merlin cuts him off, knowing that Arthur will argue the point for hours if he lets him.

Merlin’s exhausted though; not all that much physically and he’d probably manage the transportation spell just fine even with the ageing spell, but being around Arthur is nothing short of torturous.

He also desperately needs the one day it’ll take them to reach Ealdor to prepare himself for facing his mother.

Behind him, he can hear Mordred and Gwaine talk quietly, and he breathes a soft sigh of relief when they reach a small cave where he makes quick work of a small fire and wards, feeling Arthur’s eyes on his back constantly.

Whenever he catches his gaze, Arthur looks away quickly, but his expression is contemplative, thinly veiled curiosity warring with wariness. It’s more jarring than he expected, to have no idea what he’s thinking.

It’s going to be a long few days.

* * *

Merlin barely gets any sleep that night, and when he peels his aching bones off the bedroll the next morning, he finds Arthur already sitting at the cold fireplace.

For a few moments, he allows himself to watch, exhaustion lowering his carefully crafted defences. Arthur’s shoulders are tense and he’s fiddling with his mother’s ring while his sword lies within reach at his feet.

The lack of trust is completely reasonable—Merlin expected more resistance and mistrust if he’s perfectly honest—but it still sends a pang through his chest, the reminder that to Arthur, he is nothing but a stranger.

His blonde hair is dull with grime and there are streaks of dirt on his cheeks, and still, Merlin wants to bury his face in his neck, wants to wrap his arms around him and never let go again.

The itching of his fingers at the thought is what finally snaps him back into the present, and he swiftly gets up. “You should eat something,” he says gruffly, digging in his bag for some bread and dried meat. “I can also conjure you some water to wash up if that’s not too much sorcery for you, and you should change clothes to not be so easily recognisable.”

“You’re awfully audacious for a sorcerer in the presence of the king,” Arthur says dryly, more amusement than indignation in his words, but it still raises Merlin’s hackles.

Turning from where he’s still going through his bag, he straightens and pins Arthur with an unimpressed look. “Well, I’m assuming you know that you’ll have little to no chances against Morgana without my help, so until then, I don’t expect any attempts on my life while I’m sleeping.”

Arthur winces but before he can answer, there’s a groan from Gwaine’s direction. “Not like you can—“

“Shut up, Gwaine, and get up. We need to leave soon,” Merlin snaps, stalking out of the cave to catch a moment of peace before another day of what’s becoming more and more obvious madness.

It’s only a short reprieve until the others join him, Arthur now wearing some of Gwaine’s clothes and looking decidedly unhappy about it. Mordred offers him a small smile, but it does little to ease the weight in his stomach.

The atmosphere between the four of them isn’t any better than the previous day. Gwaine tries to ease the tension with his chatter, but at least Merlin can tell that he’s choosing his stories carefully, and they lack their usual enthusiasm that comes with their carefree manner.

Arthur’s silent most of the time, a frown etched between his brows like a permanent fixture. Merlin wants to smooth it away—with the pad of his finger or what has once been their way of light-hearted teasing, he doesn’t care.

It’s not his place to do so anymore though, and the knowledge only serves to make his lips press into a thin line as his chest aches.

At least he’s more attentive to their surroundings than last night, and around afternoon when they cross into Ascetir, he picks up on the presence of a group of people not far from them.

“Wait here,” he instructs quietly and doesn’t wait for an answer before climbing a ridge to their side.

He has just reached the top, edging around a tree, when the sensation of cold metal against his neck stops him in his movements.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he says mildly, tilting his head away from the blade while mentally calling for Mordred.

A chuckle that sounds like it’s coming from a woman is followed by, “And why is that? As far as I can see, you’re not armed.”

He only just keeps himself from shrugging. “I don’t need to move a single muscle to keep you from slicing my throat. But considering that it might be a bit hard to believe without me actually hurting you, let’s go with the fact that there are three swords pointed at your back.”

There’s a beat of silence before the sword leaves his throat, and he turns around with a small smile. “Good to have that settled. We don’t mean you any harm, nor those in the camp that I’m assuming you’re setting up down there.”

The woman eyes them with a mixture of contemplation and suspicion but raises an eyebrow at his words. “People who don’t mean any harm usually don’t sneak up on us.”

“We’re merely travelling through and trying to avoid trouble,” Gwaine says with a grin. “Though it does have a habit of finding us, I suppose. I’m Gwaine, by the way, and these idiots are Mordred—“

“I’m Emrys, and that’s—Percy,” Merlin rushes to say, using the first name that comes to mind that’s not Arthur. He just hopes that the name Emrys still isn’t as well-known outside of the magical community.

“Isolde?” someone shouts just then, answering the question of her name. A moment later, a man comes jogging into their direction, drawing his sword when he spots their assembled group.

“I’m fine, just some travellers,” she says, though her posture tells Merlin that she hasn’t let her guard down yet. “This one claims to be a sorcerer, though I have yet to see proof of that.”

Merlin’s lips twitch at the blunt statement, the utter lack of reverence a bit refreshing if he’s honest. “Warlock, actually. I’m also rather good at archery, although that’s probably as hard to believe as the magic, considering—“

“Yes, yes,” the man interrupts, waving an impatient hand. “What do you want, then? And why does one of you look like the bloody King?”

Damn, Merlin had hoped they wouldn’t notice, and they’re losing time they don’t have. “Does it matter? We mean you no harm but we won’t give you any of our possessions. If you don’t want to test out the magic-thing, you can either let us pass in peace, or allow us to travel with you for a bit in exchange for some magical protection.”

“That’s a rather risky bargain in the Pendragon’s kingdom,” the man says with narrowed eyes, and Merlin can’t help how his eyes flicker to Arthur automatically.

He looks tense, his shoulders rigid and his lips pressed into a thin line while his eyes never seem to leave Merlin. All things considered, it’s rather surprising that he hasn’t said anything yet, but Merlin’s not going to test his luck.

“Maybe,” he allows with a shrug and a small smile. “But I’m also _really_ good at magic, so…”

Gwaine snorts, and even Mordred doesn’t bother hiding his trademark smirk while shaking his head slightly.

Isolde and the man seem to have a whole, silent conversation between them before he finally nods. “Alright then. I’m Tristan, by the way. Make yourself useful in the camp as long as we’re resting here, and you can come along until we cross into Escetir.”

Of course, nothing ever goes this easily when Arthur is involved. It’s only a few hours later when Gwaine has just talked Arthur out of throwing a fit over travelling with smugglers that Agravaine’s men attack, chaos raining upon the group.

Merlin manages to take a fair number of men out, but there are simply too many of them, especially as he keeps getting distracted by the urge to check on Arthur, Gwaine, and Mordred every few seconds.

At least Mordred has magic to fall back on, but he didn’t have much of a chance yet to try it in the actual chaos of battle, and Merlin wishes he wouldn’t have to either.

Eventually, Merlin manages to buy them enough time and advantage to flee; unfortunately, Isolde is still injured, and Arthur’s actual identity is confirmed.

Merlin lasts nearly an hour of listening to Tristan’s needling and angry accusations until his already frayed patience wears out. “Will you shut up?” he snaps, whirling around to glare at the man. “You’re not the only one leading a difficult life in this kingdom, and you don’t hear the rest of us complaining about things that can’t be helped. Not to mention that you might try being grateful for the fact that the King you’re lamenting about saved Isolde’s life, twice if you count Mordred healing her, instead of punishing any of us for the laws we’re so blatantly breaking.”

Gwaine gives a low whistle that Merlin can’t even be bothered to react to, and he just quickly turns his back again. He’s more than aware of how pathetic it is that he still can’t stand to see the self-doubt and insecurity etch themself into the lines of Arthur’s face. He just wants all of this to be over already so he can disappear back to Ynys Gybi and pretend the outside world doesn’t exist.

When they finally make camp for the night just past the border, he’s surprised when Arthur sits down next to him at the fire after the others have gone to sleep.

“Thank you, for—for what you said, earlier,” Arthur says quietly. “I mean—not that it was particularly high praise, but at least it got him to stop for a bit. Although I’m not sure that he doesn’t have a point.”

“Arthur, you’re—“ he starts, but breaks off again to take a moment and consider his words carefully. “You do what you think is best for your people, and that’s what makes you a good King at heart. Maybe it’s not always what _is_ the best for your people—you need to learn to listen—but you’re honest and brave, and Tristan just needed someone to take his frustration out on.”

Arthur’s watching him again, eyes intent and searching as if he knows that there’s something underneath the old face that’s familiar to him. “Someone once said something quite similar to me,” he murmurs, running a hand through his hair.

He seems to catch himself though, averting his eyes. “But even if what you’re saying is true, people I deeply care about keep betraying me, and I’m—I don’t even know why I’m telling you this,” he says with a frown, his fingers tapping a restless rhythm against his knees.

Merlin doesn’t either, but he’s sure that if he were stupid enough to ask Kilgharrah or Iseldir about it, there’d be a lot of cryptic remarks about destiny and coins and halves of a whole that he’d rather not think about.

As it is, he doesn’t know how to answer this. In the past, he would’ve fervently insisted that it’s not Arthur’s fault, and he still believes that, still wants to take on some of the weight that’s currently crushing Arthur’s shoulders.

But to Arthur, they don’t have this kind of relationship anymore or rather, never had. While Arthur now knows that Merlin has magic, he doesn’t know that he’s—well, Merlin. And if he did, he wouldn’t talk to him about all this, considering that he probably considers Merlin among the list of people who betrayed him.

“I don’t think that it’s for… personal reasons they do this,” he finally says, carefully, every word heavy on his tongue. “Morgana and Agravaine seek power above all else, and their disloyalty and greed shouldn’t make you doubt yourself. Don’t let them take more from you than they already have.”

Arthur smiles slightly, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Thank you. We—I should probably sleep as well.”

Merlin simply nods, and stays, staring into the fire until the flames have long since died down.

* * *

They reach Ealdor in the early afternoon the next day, and still way too soon for Merlin’s liking. His magic is roiling uncomfortably underneath his skin, and he knows that his agitation and nervousness are rubbing off on Mordred.

Gwaine’s sticking close to him, silent for once, and Merlin has already constructed several excuses that’ll allow him to spend as little time as possible in the home he grew up in.

He never wanted to return like this.

A few villagers eye them warily as they walk into the village, but he can tell the exact second his mother spots Arthur, hurrying over to them. He hangs back, shielded slightly by Gwaine and Mordred; it doesn’t keep his heart from stuttering in his chest when he brings himself to look at her.

She seems older, her shoulders a little more bowed, her eyes more tired, and he thinks there are strands of grey in her hair now. She’s also hugging Arthur tightly, and Merlin’s just glad that nobody is expecting him to say anything because he thinks he wouldn’t be able to keep his voice from cracking if he tried.

 _‘I’m going to set some wards,’_ he says to Mordred, so very appreciative of the mental connection, and slinks away before he gets an answer.

He’s barely aware of where he’s going, the little concentration he can muster going into the proximity wards he’s setting around the boundaries of the village. When he finds himself in the spot where he and Will used to spend most of their childhood, he has to clench his eyes against the burning tears and sits down to lean against the old maple tree they climbed more often than he can count.

It’s hard to tell how much time has passed when he feels remotely close to having somewhat of a grip on himself again, but the sun is already setting, casting orange light through the gaps in the trees.

He can’t bring himself to move just yet; it would mean to give up the feeling of magic dancing all around him, still strong from Beltane and singing in the air and the earth and the trees, in favour of whatever awaits him back with his mother and Arthur.

Considering how things are going, it probably shouldn’t startle him as badly as it does when his wards go off, the slightly annoying ringing within his ears bringing him to his feet faster than anything else could. Too many of them are tripped at once for it to be one of the villagers, and he curses under his breath.

 _‘Where are you?’_ he asks Mordred, already jogging back into the village and scanning the treeline. The sky is a dark purple by now, the spaces between the trees nearly impossible to discern, but he can see shadows move and shift in a way that’s not natures doing.

_‘In your mother’s home. Are you alright?’_

_‘Agravaine and his men are here, get the others out of the backdoor. I’ll meet you there,’_ he answers, ducking around the corner of Old Man Simmons’ house and creeping along the low hedge until he reaches his mothers’ vegetable garden.

“What’s going on?” Gwaine hisses as soon as he spots him, one hand firmly on his sword while he scans their surroundings. Arthur’s in a similar stance, but his eyes find Merlin’s in an instant.

Weird how some things always stay the same, no matter how much the circumstances change.

“Agravaine’s here, they’ve surrounded the village. We need to lure them away from it,” Merlin explains briskly, just as the first few men swarm down the street.

“How did you—never mind,” Arthur huffs, shaking his head. “Do you know how many?”

Merlin concentrates but eventually, just shrugs. “A hundred, most likely more.”

“We can’t fight a hundred men!”

“ _You_ can’t,” Merlin says with a sigh, dismissing Arthur’s indignant expression in favour of turning to Mordred. “I’ll need you to keep my back free, and an eye on the others. Don’t hesitate to distract me if necessary.”

Mordred nods, but no matter how much his shoulders straighten, Merlin can see the fear in his eyes, and he hates himself a little more for drawing him into this.

Luckily, there’s no time to question his life-choices right now.

“I’ll create a diversion, and all of us run. Gwaine, Arthur, Isolde, and Tristan, you cover each other and run for the hills—don’t wait for us,” he orders and for once in his life, Arthur doesn’t argue.

The first part works remarkably well, the burning cart Merlin sends at Agravaine and his men creating a large enough gap in their lines for them to run into the forest. Unfortunately, Agravaine still sees them, and soon there are shouts and crashes following hot on their heels.

Merlin doesn’t stop until they’re on top of a broad slope where he has the advantage of height, and the clearing creates some space for him to see. He flings back men in the dozens while Mordred assists him with fireballs that, any other time, would remind him uncomfortably of Nimueh.

It soon becomes obvious that it won’t be enough if he doesn’t want to risk hurting the others, spending too much of his energy, or use forces that might lead Arthur to become too wary of him before they retake Camelot.

A glance over his shoulder shows him that while Arthur did not protest, he didn’t listen either. He and the others are lingering on the edge of the clearing, fighting off men with their combined sword-power.

Between all of them dying or revealing just another piece of himself that probably won’t matter anyway because Arthur has no idea who he actually is, the decision is an easy one.

He creates a shield around himself and Mordred and tips his head back. " _O drakon, fthengomai au se kalon su katerkheo deuro!_ " 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uuh so yes, I'm sorry for the cliffhanger? 😶❤️
> 
> Just in case you're wondering, I skipped over a few episodes here. The Lamia one wouldn't happen because Merlin wouldn't be there to ride out in Gaius' place, so the timing would be off. Obviously, the whole Gwen/Lancelot arc also doesn't happen, though you could argue that Mithian would still visit Camelot. Merlin's not really keeping track of Arthur's personal life though, and I also kind of pushed Arthur in his character development here, so he wouldn't actually consider marrying her in the first place. There's no actual (feeling of) betrayal from Merlin anymore, and he's also more wary of Agravaine's advice. Seeing that it wouldn't be plot-relevant, I decided to keep it out, but I thought I'd mention it here.


	9. what should be over, burrowed under my skin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your feedback! ❤️
> 
> Chapter title from [Taylor Swift - the lakes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tOHcAc3r2kw)

_"O drakon, fthengomai au se kalon su katerkheo deuro!"_

The shout reverberates through the clearing, Emrys’ voice so deep and guttural that it sounds unnatural to Arthur’s ears and sends shivers down his spine. He has no idea what it means—of course he doesn’t—but even he can tell that it’s powerful in the way the air seems to buzz around them, how everyone freezes and waits for the inevitable blow.

“What the fuck,” he mutters when nothing happens, instinctively turning to the man who has once been one of his most trusted knights.

Gwaine laughs, the sound strangely out of place in the seconds of stillness, and while it startles the mercenaries out of their stupor, he still throws a grin over his shoulder. “Just you wait, princess. He’s done joking around now, I just hope that they both come.”

It only makes it all the more ominous, and Arthur would’ve asked himself for the umpteenth time what led Gwaine into the company of two sorcerers if it wasn’t for the fighting that’s picking up again.

Not much more than a few minutes have passed when a deafening roar shakes the ground once again, and a shadow blocks out the last remains of light.

Arthur stares and stares, and if it had not been for Tristan blocking the attack of a man who is either thinking that now he’s done for anyway or outstandingly unperceptive, he would’ve become a pathetically easy victim.

A dragon— _the_ dragon, the one he thought he killed and then learnt he didn’t because Merlin was a Dragonlord, is currently burning the army of hundreds of men to crisp as if it’s nothing. Meanwhile, Emrys stands at the side and watches, a grim, impenetrable mask on his face that’s illuminated by the dancing flames and shadows that are taking over the clearing.

The screams and the smell are turning Arthur’s stomach, but it’s that expression, the look of resignation and bitterness that truly _scares_ him, for the first time since he was forced to leave Camelot.

Because if this, somewhere underneath the age and the distance and the coldness—if there is somewhere _Merlin_ underneath it all, as Arthur has spent the last few days trying to deny and convince himself in equal measures—then he’s not sure if it even matters anymore.

It’s only when there are screams from their side, out of the underbrush that Arthur finally notices the second dragon. White and gleaming in the orange light, and much smaller than its companion, but its flames chase those few out of their hiding spots who were fast enough to escape the first attack.

He spots Agravaine among them when he’s already running towards Arthur, and fury and betrayal and sadness are raging within him as he raises his sword.

His uncle crumbles a few feet away from him, uncharred from the fire. When Arthur looks up, he finds Emrys’ eyes already on him. One of his hands is still outstretched and balled into a fist, but his face is open for once, full of apologies and _‘I didn’t want you to have to kill him yourself.’_

Their gaze holds and something passes between them, that strange familiarity Arthur can’t shake despite his better judgement.

Emrys only turns away when the white dragon lands next to him, chirping and stumbling over its own feet. “—Lin!”

“Hello, sweetheart,” Emrys murmurs, kneeling down and nearly getting toppled over when the dragon buts its head against his chest. “I’m sorry to drag you into this. Are you alright?”

It’s such a soft exchange, full of care and genuine worry, and completely out of place on the smoking remains of the battlefield. Neither of them seems to care or even notice, and Emrys’ attention only shifts when the great dragon lands as well.

“Thank you, Kilgharrah. We’d probably all be dead without you,” Emrys says, his voice much more serious as he inclines his head.

The dragon returns the bow, and Arthur would call the twitch of its lips a smile if—if he wanted to start attributing human expressions to _dragons_.

“You know that you can always call me in times of need, young warlock. I see destiny is getting back on its path once again.”

“You’re infuriating,” Emrys states, but it sounds more fondly exasperated than anything else, and when he crosses the distance between them to lean his forehead against the dragon’s snout, Arthur’s pretty sure that he interpreted that correctly.

That doesn’t mean he’s going to get over the bizarre picture anytime soon.

A touch on his arm startles him, and he’s surprised to find Mordred standing at his side. “Let’s go. Emrys will follow in a moment,” he says, tugging at Arthur’s arm as if he’s just another companion in their, quite frankly, completely puzzling group.

“But—“

“Come on, princess. He has two dragons, he can take care of himself,” Gwaine pipes up, his tug infinitely more insistent than Mordred’s.

It’s only now that he remembers Tristan’s and Isolde’s presence, the pair of them staring between Arthur and where Emrys is talking to his dragons.

“I thought Pendragons don’t deal in sorcery?” Tristan asks snidely, all the thinly veiled implications more than clear in the mocking tilt of his lips.

But Arthur’s too tired for this. “There are many things you’re assuming,” he says and leaves it at that, following Gwaine and Mordred up a hill and towards the entrance of a cave.

They wait there, all of them sprawling on the ground as they come down from the fight, but Arthur’s mind is still racing a mile per minute.

“I thought Merlin was the last Dragonlord,” he finally says quietly, watching Gwaine closely for his reaction.

He doesn’t receive what he’s hoping for, merely a curiously raised eyebrow and a mild, “Was he?”

“Being a Dragonlord is regarded the same way as magic is. It’s not something people go around advertising, is it?” Mordred adds with a shrug, a slight furrow between his brows as he inspects his sword.

And Arthur—Arthur is just so confused and lost, and tired down to his very bones. He has lost his kingdom, his castle, _his people_ , to his sister and his uncle’s schemes of all things. But all his mind has been doing for the past two days is creating pro- and contra-lists as for why it is likely that Emrys is indeed Merlin, or not at all.

Merlin would’ve told him, would’ve at least not _lied_ to him with the face of someone else, but that’s not quite true either because he’s lied before, and what right does Arthur have to demand anything else of him?

There are moments where he’s sure that he’s right, that he would just have to reach out and shake the idiot until he laughs and admits it, and they’d have a tearful reunion they’ll never talk about again. And then there are those where he prays and begs that he’s wrong because he’s not sure how he could ever deal with _this_ being Merlin, jaded and bitter and ready to leave Arthur to face the world on his own.

Just that he doesn’t, that he’s _still here_ , and Arthur’s running and running in circles that just make his head hurt, words of Druids and dragons and Gaius swelling into a cacophony of contradicting, fractured pieces. It all leaves him with the strong desire to smash his head against the rocks to his side if only to catch a second of blissful nothingness. 

“Maybe he should be the king,” Tristan’s voice breaks through the mess of his thoughts. “He clearly knows what he’s doing.”

“By the goddess, no,” Emrys says, suddenly appearing in front of them, and his disapproving frown seems to be enough to shut Tristan up. The words are still there though, just adding to Arthur’s horrible mood.

“He already is as close to a king as—“

“Gwaine, shut up,” Emrys interrupts, though his glare is ineffective against Gwaine’s broad grin.

“Alright,” Gwaine relents with a shrug after their staring match has lasted a few seconds. “Is Aithusa alright?”

Emrys holds his hand out for Mordred to pull him to his feet, sharp eyes scanning him for injuries as he gives a distracted nod. “She wasn’t happy about getting send away again, but I think she’s fine.”

“Wait,” Arthur interrupts, something suddenly occurring to him which he really should’ve thought of sooner. “The white dragon, is—it’s young, isn’t it?”

Emrys exchanges a glance with Gwaine and Mordred before turning fully to Arthur, watching him closely as he gets to his feet on his own.

“She, and yes. She hatched at the beginning of the year.”

There’s subtle defiance in his gaze that tells Arthur all he needs to know. “You saved the egg from the Tomb of Ashkanar,” he says anyway, his eyes narrowing at the memory.

“As if I would let someone like Borden get their hands on it,” Emrys scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest and doing a poor job at covering up the sneer that’s curling his lips.

“I assumed the egg was destroyed, and Borden is serving time in the dungeons for stealing the key,” Arthur mutters, more to himself, but he should’ve expected Emrys to pick up on it and take it the wrong way.

“As I wanted you to believe. I’m not letting _you_ anywhere close to her either—or Kilgharrah, for that matter. Your father nearly managed to wipe out their entire kind, and you’ll have to get past me if you’re planning to finish the job,” Emrys says lowly, raising his chin as he crosses his arms over his chest.

Arthur lifts both his hands and shakes his head. “First of all, I have other things to do right now, and then—as long as they don’t harm anyone, I see no reason to involve myself.”

Emrys’ answering laugh is mirthless. “You mean as long as they don’t harm anyone who isn’t your enemy, I guess?”

“I didn’t ask you to call them, did I?” he snaps, exhaustion and his fraying nerves getting the better of him. Of course, there’s a point in there somewhere, but he already knows that he’s failing his kingdom in every way imaginable, and Emrys’ mere existence just doesn’t help.

“Oh, that’s just perfect,” Emrys snarls, his eyes blazing as he takes a step towards Arthur. Eyes so very familiar, anger and indignation dripping from his voice like something he has heard a thousand times before. But he isn’t, he can’t, he’s _not—_ “I should’ve just let you die then, is that what you’re saying?”

“Why didn’t you?” he throws back, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “Morgana could have the throne, and you wouldn’t have to worry about my horrible, magic-hating reign that I’ve inherited from my father, would you? You obviously don’t think me any different, so why do you even care? For fuck’s sake, _why are you doing this?”_ he shouts, and he can’t be bothered by how his voice cracks over the last few words.

Emrys freezes, his lips parted slightly and eyes wide before the anger drains from his face and his shoulders, his head lowering so Arthur can’t make out his expression any longer.

Silence hangs heavy between them until a sigh rattles Emrys’ whole body and he turns away from Arthur. “We should go. I’m sure that a few of the men escaped, and it’s only a matter of time before Morgana sends more of them after us.”

Without another glance at Arthur, he conjures a flame in his hand and strides into the cave behind them.

“Don’t take it to heart,” Gwaine says, appearing next to him and smiling weakly. “Come on.”

Briefly, Arthur considers protesting, to demand an actual answer. In the end, he just follows them—it’s more than clear that pushing won’t get him anywhere, and he’s not sure he even wants to hear it.

The cave turns out to be a confusing system of tunnels, but Emrys seems to know where he’s going. While the whole journey is even tenser and more uncomfortable than the previous days were, it at least only takes them a few hours to reach the other end.

By the time they do, daylight is already breaking, the low hanging clouds obstructing most of the early morning light.

“Where to next?” Tristan asks, one arm wrapped loosely around Isolde’s shoulders as he watches Arthur with a raised brow.

He sighs quietly. “We should go on.”

Emrys shakes his head, his expression slightly hesitant. “I think we should turn back to Camelot—“

“We just got out of Camelot,” Arthur interrupts, wincing when it comes out sharper than intended.

“Yes, I know,” Emrys allows with a nod. “Which is good because I’m pretty sure Morgana’s men lost our trail by now. But I’m also certain that your knights and your people are hiding in the Forest of Ascetir and we’re going to need them.”

“But isn’t she able to scry—“ Arthur starts but cuts himself off when it clicks that Morgana most likely didn’t spy on them. There had been a traitor, after all—he was just too blind and stupid to see it.

Emrys is staring at him, surprise written all over his face. “You know about—never mind. I don’t think that Morgana can scry us. Ironically enough, those who are seers are rarely able to watch over the present,” he says. “But the decision is ultimately yours.”

If he’s perfectly honest, Arthur doubts that many of his people survived, and even if they did, it won’t do them much good to have him back there. He’s not going to voice that right now though. “Forest of Ascetir it is.”

They’re all tired and their progress is slow-going. During one of the short breaks they take at the bank of a river, Gwaine sits down next to Arthur, a little apart from the others. “You alright?” he asks, holding out an apple while watching him carefully.

Arthur snorts before he can help himself. “Does it matter?” he asks, and there’s more bitterness in his voice than he expected.

Of course, it doesn’t deter Gwaine in the slightest. “Would I ask otherwise?”

“I’m fine.”

“I remember you as a better liar,” Gwaine says calmly, but there’s a slow frown forming between his brows. “Look, Emrys—he’s… It’s not easy for him, alright? But he doesn’t mean half the things he says.”

The question is burning on the tip of Arthur’s tongue, just begging to be asked. He thinks if he outright confronts Gwaine with it, he might just get the truth from his reaction.

Then again, at this point, he’s not even sure if he wants to know the answer. And if there’s one thing he has learnt, it’s that Gwaine’s loyalty doesn’t lie with him—whether the man who’s currently sitting with Mordred and looking like they’re having a whole silent conversation is actually Merlin or not.

“It doesn’t matter. Not all of us can pack our things and leave as soon as it gets difficult, regardless of how much we might want to,” he says coldly, and there’s a perverse sense of satisfaction in seeing the answering flinch. “Neither do we get over said _difficulties_ as easily. So really, just drop it.”

A muscle in Gwaine’s jaw jumps and he draws a visible breath before meeting Arthur’s gaze head-on. “I know that you’re looking for a fight because you’re frustrated, so I won’t comment on any of the things you just said. But I also know that you’re a good king—“

“You weren’t even around for the time during which I was King.”

“I know that you’re a good king,” Gwaine repeats, raising an eyebrow as if to dare him to interrupt again. “And that I left had very little to do with you personally, and very much with my own grief and the feeling that I’d failed Merlin on every possible level. We’re going to take Camelot back, and you’ll go on and show everyone how glad they can be to have you. Now, stop moping.”

With that, Gwaine claps him on the shoulder and jumps to his feet, strolling over to where Emrys and Mordred are still sitting. “Oi, you two nutters, start having conversations like normal people, would you?”

Arthur stays silent throughout the rest of the day, but Gwaine’s words and implicit apology somehow took some of the pressure off of his chest. Not enough to make him believe everything he said, but at least it’s one less person he looks at and feels like he failed.

They find a place to set up camp in the Forest of Ascetir just when night falls, and he takes up the task of collecting firewood without complaint. Somewhere off to his right, he can hear voices talking quietly, and he can’t help but stop and strain his ears to listen.

“—sure you want to keep this up? Arthur doesn’t seem to mind the magic all that much,” Gwaine’s just saying, a gentleness to his tone that Arthur hasn’t heard before.

There’s a bitter burst of laughter in response that he instantly associates with Emrys. “Sure, but only because right now, he needs it. Even Uther was ready to ignore his own laws when it served him. More than once, I might add.”

Arthur stiffens. While that’s certainly true for his father, it’s not why _he_ minds it so little. But he can hardly explain that his views have been changing—because of his dead manservant, no less. Still, the revelation that Emrys sees him as indistinguishable from his father stings more than it should.

“Gods, Em, we both know that you’re perfectly aware that—“

“He’s nothing like Uther, yeah, _I_ _know_. Still, it doesn’t change anything. I just _can’t_ , okay? Can we please drop this now?” Emrys mutters, and his voice sounds so tired and defeated that Arthur feels even more like an intruder for eavesdropping.

“But why not? Look, he’s obviously miserable, you’re—“

“The firewood is not going to collect itself,” a voice from behind Arthur drawls, and he closes his eyes briefly before turning around to offer Tristan a tight smile.

“Believe it or not, I’m perfectly aware of that,” he says with a sigh, shifting the wood he already has in his arms.

Tristan raises a brow and smirks. “Look at this, the great royal, lowering himself to such menial tasks. Makes you wonder what about you is so different that you’re better equipped to rule than everybody else, doesn’t it?”

“Perhaps there isn’t anything,” Arthur answers, the words perhaps the truest thing he has said all day.

“Exactly, there really isn’t.”

Arthur watches as Tristan turns his back and leaves, the small amount of comfort he’d drawn from Gwaine’s earlier words evaporating into thin air, and he slumps against a tree. His father would probably turn in his grave if he could see him this pathetic, but nothing feels more unimportant than his father’s opinion right now.

When he finally brings himself to return to the camp, the fire is already burning low. Only Emrys is still awake, sitting on a log and petting a raven that’s perched on his knee.

At Arthur’s approach, he looks up. “I saved you some food,” he says, his eyes intent as Arthur settles down across from him and takes the offered bowl.

Nodding his thanks, he eyes the bird that seems strangely at home where it is. “Made a new friend?” he finally asks, mainly to just say something and break the lingering tension between them.

Emrys smiles, and Arthur’s taken aback as it transforms his whole face into something softer, kinder. As if he’s allowing a piece of himself to shine through for the first time.

“Taranis is my familiar. The Druids gifted him to me after—a while ago,” Emrys says, shaking his head slightly. “He must’ve grown bored waiting for us and decided to find me.”

The raven gives a quiet caw and leaves Emrys’ knee, only to settle on Arthur’s shoulder and tug at his hair affectionately. Arthur can’t quite help the amused huff that slips past his lips and offers him some of his bread.

“Of course he’d like you,” Emrys mutters, rolling his eyes and stretching out his legs. “He won’t go near Gwaine after months, but you’re here for one second and he instantly adopts you.”

“Hard to believe anyone would choose my side, isn’t it?” Arthur retorts, and it was meant to come out dry, but it mostly sounds resigned.

Instead of shooting back another teasing remark like Arthur expected, Emrys sighs deeply and presses his lips together. “Arthur, what I said to you earlier—I’m sorry. I know that you’re nothing like your father, and I genuinely believe that you’re a good king. That you’re going to be a great one, even.”

Arthur quickly averts his eyes, his shoulders stiffening. “Did Gwaine put you up to this?”

“What? No,” Emrys says, and when Arthur chances a glance at him, his brows are furrowed in confusion, maybe even frustration. “I mean it, I think that you’re fair and just and that you have a good heart in spite of people taking advantage of that. It’s your biggest strength, and you shouldn’t doubt yourself because of what Tristan or I said to you. I’m aware that there wasn’t an execution of any sorcerers since—in a while. You even made peace with the Druids, and I was just—overwhelmed and worried, and I took it out on you. I’m sorry.”

It’s the most Emrys has spoken to him since leaving Camelot, and he doesn’t know how to discern it all. Swallowing, he focuses on the easiest thing. “How do you know that? The peace with the Druids, I mean,” he asks, narrowing his eyes. It’s not something anyone in his court is aware of.

Emrys shifts on his log and offers him a small smile. “News travels fast in the magical community.”

“Really?” Arthur asks, raising his brows. “I would’ve thought that the opposite is true, considering the need for hiding.”

Much to his surprise, Emrys snorts and his smile grows into a grin. “While that’s true, we also have magic. And well—a bird is rather useful if one needs to deliver messages, isn’t it?”

“I guess so,” Arthur says with a small smile, but he sobers quickly. “Still, apologising for something that never should’ve happened in the first place doesn’t make me a great king. Most of my people are dead thanks to me. I’ve lost my kingdom after less than six months of my reign, and worst of all, I keep trusting the wrong people.”

Emrys winces and averts his eyes, wrapping his cloak more tightly around himself. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly, though his voice still sounds hoarse. Visibly shaking himself, he meets Arthur’s gaze again. “But I’m sure that most of your people survived, and we will retake Camelot. It’s your destiny to become Albion’s greatest king, and not even Morgana can do anything to stop that.”

A bitter laugh breaks out of him before he can stop it and he shakes his head, getting to his feet while dislodging the raven from his shoulder. “If there’s one thing I’ve learnt, it’s that destiny doesn’t guarantee _anything_. And my people are probably better off with another king, all things considered.” 

Without waiting for an answer, he turns his back and stalks to the edge of the camp to settle on his bedroll, the feeling of Emrys’ eyes burning on his back all the way.

It’s only when he allows his thoughts to drift that the strange conversation between Gwaine and Emrys comes back to him. Try as he might, it doesn’t make any sense to him, and he discards it as just one more piece of the riddle that’s Emrys.

* * *

Arthur jerks awake, and it takes him long moments to switch from the familiar nightmare to comprehending Emrys’ face hovering above him. “What the hell?” he mutters when he finally does, sitting up and rubbing a hand over his face.

“Come on, up you get. We have to show you something,” Emrys says, and there’s a small grin on his face that Arthur hasn’t seen before.

Pulling himself to his feet, he meets Mordred’s gaze for a moment before turning back to Emrys. “Where are the others? And are you going to tell me why the hell you’re waking me before the sun’s up?”

“Don’t worry, if I had meant to kidnap you, I would’ve done so ages ago,” Emrys says with a dismissive gesture and starts walking, obviously expecting Arthur to follow.

Another glance at Mordred reveals absolutely nothing, and with a sigh, he stalks after the two sorcerers.

“So, after we talked last night, I contemplated what would serve to restore your confidence,” Emrys says conversationally, and Arthur can’t remember once seeing him so at ease in the last few days. “What you said about destiny reminded me of a legend that is fairly well-known in the magical community while you probably never heard of it.”

Arthur hums, and at Emrys’ expectant glance, nods for him to go on.

“Right, so you most likely know all about the origins of the Five Kingdoms, and the story of Brutus?”

“Obviously,” he huffs, long, drawn-out tutor-sessions flashing through his mind. “I just don’t see what that has to do with anything?”

“Patience is a virtue,” Emrys shoots back, but there’s a small smirk visible behind his beard. “Obviously, to Brutus’ time, magic was still flourishing in Albion and one of his many magical advisors was a renowned seer. Now, I don’t know how much you actually know about the prophecy you’re a part of, but it has been around for a _very_ long time.”

Despite his best intentions, Arthur can’t help his growing curiosity. Of course, his father would have banned any historical tradition even distantly related to magic from his curriculum, and it never occurred to him how much he must’ve missed.

“Brutus was aware of the prophecy when he came up with the plan to divide the land. His seer foretold that it would be one of his descendants who would unite Albion again and bring peace, and between the warlocks and sorcerers of his court, they created a spell that would eventually ensure that his position couldn’t be challenged,” Emrys explains, and now his voice holds a distant note of reverence in it.

Arthur’s throat is dry, pieces of what Gaius and, more recently, the Druids told him drifting to the surface. “How’s that even possible?”

Emrys inclines his head slightly. “The technicalities of the spell itself are long since lost. But shortly before his death, Brutus requested to be taken into the forest where he plunged his sword into a stone, sealed in by the spell. Only the prophesied Once and Future King is able to pull it out. Many have tried—“

“It’s nearly a rite of passage for the Druids,” Mordred speaks up for the first time, a small smirk flittering over his face. “Obviously, nobody expects to succeed, but the story is told to every child.”

“What he means to say is that magic alone isn’t enough. Only you, Arthur, can pull Excalibur from its stone—proving that you’re not only the rightful King of Camelot, but the king the prophecy speaks of,” Emrys says quietly as he comes to a halt, and when Arthur follows his line of sight, he finds himself in a clearing.

A massive rock rests in the middle of it, and the hilt of a gleaming sword reflects the sunlight that’s just breaking through the trees. On the other side of the clearing, his knights and many of Camelot’s citizens are waiting, Gwaine leaning against a tree and flashing him a grin.

“This is madness,” he whispers, turning towards Emrys. “What if I _can’t_ pull it out? The prophecy already got off track, I was never meant to do it alone—“

“Arthur, you are the Once and Future King. The prophecy has changed, yes, but it still very much applies to you. You need to believe in yourself—as all of these people believe in you,” Emrys urges, his voice low and insistent as his eyes track Arthur’s every move.

He swallows and nods, allowing himself a moment to consider the words. And he realises—no matter how hard this is to believe, no matter how much his chest _aches_ at the mere thought of Merlin not being here to witness this—that he at least owes it to him, to his memory, to try. To not give up on himself and the dream Merlin so restlessly fought for.

“Alright,” he breathes with a nod, relieving himself of his sword and stepping up to the boulder. For a moment, he allows himself to take in the faces of all the people that have come to see this, allows himself to feel the pain about the one face he wants to see most not being there, and then wraps his hands around the sword.

It doesn’t budge, not even a fraction.

“You need to believe in it, Arthur,” Emrys says from behind him, and the voice almost sounds familiar, reassuring in a way it shouldn’t be.

Closing his eyes, he exhales a measured breath and lets one hand fall away, easing his grip of the other. The sword glides from the stone as if it were a mere scabbard, and Arthur wouldn’t be able to hide his smile if he tried.

Shouts of “Long live the King,” are echoing through the clearing, but Arthur’s eyes find Emrys’ first. He’s smiling, open and gentle as his eyes shine with pride. In those short seconds, the years seem to melt away from his face, and Arthur’s nearly sure that this _can’t_ be anyone but Merlin.

The moment is broken when Leon, Lancelot, and Gwaine appear at his side, clapping him on the shoulder and beaming, fervent vows of loyalty being made in a manner that usually would be conveyed more silently among his knights.

He lets the congratulations wash over him, revelling in how all the doubt melts away piece by piece, but it’s impossible to miss that several people are missing.

When he asks about it, Leon and Lancelot sober.

“Gaius insisted to stay behind to delay Morgana from pursuing us and you, after it became obvious that you managed to escape. Gwen wouldn’t be moved to leave him, and Elyan stayed to protect them,” Leon explains quietly, worry clouding his face.

Lancelot’s expression is even more troubled. “We didn’t know, Sire. Sir Kai only delivered the message when he joined us after we had already left the city.”

“It’s not your fault,” Arthur says with a shake of his head, knowing that it will do nothing to ease their guilt. “It was their decision. Let us hope that Morgana counts on getting information out of them eventually. Percival was captured as well when we fled.”

They’re all silent for a moment, their thoughts behind the castle walls, but eventually, they shake themselves out of their worry. There’s much to do, and they have more than enough experience in pushing on even if the odds are stacked against them.

The rest of the day flies by with plans and preparations. Arthur explains Emrys’ and Mordred’s presence and their role in his escape, and between his and Gwaine’s reassurance, the knights tolerate them easily enough.

Arthur catches snippets of an argument between Emrys and Mordred, concerning the latter’s insistence to accompany them into battle the next day. When Emrys eventually throws his hands up and storms off, he’s muttering about, “Stubborn Druid children, spending too much time in Gwaine’s company.”

“You didn’t sleep more than five hours in the last three days, you don’t get to lecture me about responsibility!” Mordred yells after him while Gwaine’s shaking with laughter, which gets both of them doused with a jet of water coming out of nowhere.

It gets a bout of laughter out of Arthur and answers his unasked question if they’re going to leave, now that he has his knights back at his side. He’s more relieved than he cares to admit that they’re staying.

“Sire,” Leon says, approaching him when he has a rare minute alone, and Arthur already knows where this is going.

Sighing, he gestures for him to go on. “Speak freely, Leon.”

Leon smiles briefly before turning his eyes to where Emrys is currently in the process of weaving spells into their armour. “I’m not saying that we shouldn’t trust him, or that we won’t need their help against Morgana. But retaking Camelot with the open help of magic will have several long-term consequences in whichever way you’re going to justify it.”

“Either it’s going to make me a hypocrite, or I’ll have to acknowledge that my father’s laws were too strict at least, if not plain unjust,” he agrees with a nod. It’s not that he hasn’t thought about it yet, but Leon doesn’t know just how much time he spent on this particular topic over the last few months. “It’s not a new realisation if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I had my suspicion,” Leon says with a small grin, squeezing Arthur’s shoulder briefly before his face softens. “He would be proud of you.”

“Yeah, perhaps,” Arthur murmurs, shaking his head to get rid of any and all thoughts on Merlin. “Come on, we need to divide everyone into groups and go over the plan once more.”

* * *

The next morning brings a flurry of activity as everyone’s preparing for battle. Arthur’s just going over some of the details with Leon and Lancelot for one last time when Tristan and Isolde approach them.

“I guess you’re leaving, then?” he asks with a smile, finding that he doesn’t really hold a grudge against Tristan.

Isolde shakes her head and takes a step forward. “We’d like to fight with you if you’ll have us,” she states confidently, her eyes flicking to Tristan briefly. “We’ve seen that you’re not fighting for yourself, but for what is right.”

“I’m—“ Arthur starts, taken by surprise. “Yes, gladly, of course. I’m surprised you would want to though.”

Tristan smiles sheepishly and runs a hand through his hair. “Seems like I was wrong about you. Someone who has the loyalty of so many people can’t be all bad, right?”

Arthur laughs and holds his hand out for both of them to shake. “High praise indeed. You should probably go with Leon’s group—“

“Sire,” Leon immediately interrupts, frowning at him. “We have enough people. They should accompany you to the throne room.”

“I have two sorcerers and two dragons—“

“If you think that I’m going to take Kilgharrah and Aithusa with us, you’re less capable than I thought,” Emrys speaks up from behind him, appearing out of nowhere.

Turning around, he frowns at him. “Why wouldn’t you? And while we’re at it, did you get some sleep?”

Emrys snorts, raising a brow at him. “Yes, Arthur, I did sleep, but nice of you to ask. As for Aithusa and Kilgharrah—as useful as they are in open terrain, they can’t ensure that their fire only hits enemies. Meaning, if you don’t want to risk burning down Camelot in the process, we’re better off without them. Not to mention that Aithusa is still young and more vulnerable, and I won’t risk her getting hurt. I ordered her to stay with Kilgharrah, and both to only come if I call them.”

It makes an annoying amount of sense, though Arthur thinks that there’s a point to be made about the value of intimidation.

“Alright,” he says with a sigh, turning back to Leon. “No dragons, but still two sorcerers. And Gwaine because he simply refuses to let them out of his sight.”

Leon shakes his head, a stubborn set to his jaw that Arthur knows better than to argue with. “The fighting will mainly happen on your way to the throne room and when you encounter Morgana. Lancelot and I are going to have ten more knights with us, where you’re only four people. They’re going with you.”

Raising his hands in defeat, he inclines his head. “Alright then. With me it is,” he tells Tristan and Isolde with a shrug, and their answering grins only make him sigh again.

Emrys clears his throat. “Maybe Mordred could accompany—“

“I’m not leaving your side,” Mordred shouts from where Gwaine’s putting him into chainmail, glaring fiercely at the side of Emrys’ head.

Emrys just closes his eyes in defeat before turning to Arthur. “What is it with people claiming to honour you but never listening to a word you say?”

Biting back his laughter, he shakes his head. “Wouldn’t I like to know.”

* * *

They make it to Camelot just before the sun hits its highest point and silently split up into their designated groups.

The few men that are stationed at the entrance to the very tunnels Agravaine invaded the castle through are so ridiculously easy to take out that Arthur nearly expects a trap. They encounter only very few guards until they reach the side corridor that leads up to the throne room, none of them lasting long between the six of them.

“She’s in there,” Emrys whispers from his side, and Arthur doesn’t even bother asking how he knows this.

Five more guards are stationed in front of the doors, but before Arthur can even raise his sword, Emrys’ eyes glow gold and all of them crumble where they stand.

“Well, that’s easier,” Isolde mutters from his left.

“There are only two people inside,” Emrys says, his head tilted slightly. “She must be very sure of herself.”

Arthur clenches his jaw, steeling himself. “Never a good sign.”

Emrys hums. “I have no doubt that there are more than enough men close by.”

“Let’s not wait for them, then,” Arthur says, striding forward to push the doors open.

Morgana’s lounging on the throne, a smirk stretching across her face as soon as Arthur enters. To her right, a man who’s nearly as broad as he’s tall is towering, one hand resting on the back of the throne while the other sits loosely on the hilt of his sword.

She goes rigid when her eyes fall on Emrys. “ _You_!” she spits, shooting to her feet as her face drains of all colour.

“Hello Morgana,” Emrys says from Arthur’s left. “I’m surprised you didn’t expect me to be honest.”

“Excuse me for not expecting my brother to turn up with a sorcerer at his side,” she snarls, and her gaze is expectant when it flickers to Arthur as if waiting for him to baulk at the revelation.

Arthur doesn’t get a chance to answer.

“What, did you think he doesn’t know who we are?” Emrys asks, but there’s no taunting in his tone. “I mean—you never did give him a chance to prove himself, did you? Not that I have any ground to stand on myself.”

Only half of the words coming out of Emrys’ mouth are making sense to Arthur, but Morgana is floundering, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. Arthur thinks this might be his only chance to get anything resembling an answer from her.

“Why didn’t you?” he asks into the strange silence, taking a few steps towards her while carefully sheathing his sword. “You must’ve known, surely, that I am not my—our father?”

His voice is quiet, and he knows that the hurt must be clear on his face.

For a moment, it seems like the remains of Morgana’s mask are going to crumble, but then her lips curl into a sneer, eyes turning cold once more. “Oh, I don’t know—your oh so beloved servant poisoning me might’ve been my first clue. You standing by, watching, as Uther burnt him only confirmed my opinion of you. Merlin having magic,” she says with a bitter laugh, her curls flying as she shakes her head. “Must’ve been quite the shock for you, dear brother.”

His jaw clenches on its own volition. Morgana always knew where to hit to hurt him, and his thoughts are tumbling over themselves.

Before he can ask after the accusation of Merlin bloody poisoning her, her attention already shifts back to Emrys. “That you don’t consider it a betrayal of your kind to side with _him—_ “

“ _Enough_ ,” Mordred suddenly speaks up, stepping out from behind Emrys. “Morgana, can’t you see what’s becoming of you? Your hatred is turning you blind, and you’re only working to destroy of what you know so very little.”

Arthur’s hand has gone to his sword as soon as Mordred spoke, but Morgana seems to be frozen once again as her eyes fall on him.

“ _Mordred_? But—“ she stops, her jaw clenching as she stares between him and Emrys before her face hardens. “I don’t know why I expected anything else,” she snarls, and there’s betrayal buried deep within her fury.

The moment she raises her hand, she’s flung through the room and crashing into a wall. Not a second later, the man who has stayed quiet throughout the whole exchange gives a sharp whistle and charges at Arthur.

Doors burst open, several men streaming into the room, and out of the corner of his eye, Arthur can see the flashes of spells and explosions raining down as Morgana and Emrys get locked in battle.

As much as he wants to keep an eye on what’s happening, the man who was guarding Morgana is a fierce opponent, and he has to focus solely on his own fight.

A shout that’s more terror than anger and sounds like Mordred distracts him briefly. It’s only the fraction of a second, his movement faltering the barest amount, but it’s enough for his opponent to push back and kick his legs out from underneath him, his sword scattering away.

He sees the malicious grin, the sword hovering above him; thinks that it’s ironic that even with who’s wearing the name of the most powerful sorcerer to ever walk the earth at his side, he’s still going to be ended by some mercenary leader, and then the man crumbles where he stands.

Arthur barely catches the movement of his arm as the man twists in his fall, nor does he understand what’s happening when the man’s flying across the room, and Arthur comes face to face with a startled looking Isolde, blood still dripping from her sword.

“I’d be dead if not for—“ she starts, and when Arthur jumps back to his feet and follows her line of sight, he instantly spots Emrys.

He’s clearly at a disadvantage. Morgana seems to be injured but is making up for it with pure fury, while Emrys appears to mostly block her attacks.

“I—he saved me, and gave up his advantage for it,” Isolde murmurs, the disbelief that’s common in knights who didn’t expect to survive colouring her voice.

Arthur’s just scanning the room when it happens; one of Morgana’s spells slips past Emrys’ shields and he staggers, his eyes widening in shock before his face blanks over and he drops like a puppet whose strings were cut.

Morgana’s following laughter sounds too loud even in the chaos of battle, and Arthur whirls around when it’s cut off by an enraged shout. Mordred’s eyes are wild, a snarl twisting his features as he screams. Whatever it is he’s doing, it lifts Morgana into the air and hurls her through the room once more, her body crumbling as she crashes into one of the columns.

Mordred’s already across the room when Arthur tears his eyes away.

But the man he’s kneeling over has no white hair. Without conscious thought, Arthur stumbles closer, his eyes fixed on the person that Mordred’s hands seem to be scanning systematically.

No white hair. No beard, no wrinkles, or aged features—but a mop of unruly, black hair, lanky limbs and pale skin and a grey cloak. Features that are oh so familiar from myriads of dreams and memories.

Arthur’s blood is rushing in his ears as his heart is pounding against his ribs in a way that has nothing to do with the fighting but everything with the man in front of him.

Some part of his mind is still able to comprehend that Mordred’s trying to help and going to need space for that, so he sinks to his knees by Merlin’s head. His shaking hand reaches out on its own volition, his fingers finding warm, soft skin where he’s pushing back strands of hair, and he’s not sure if he can believe that this is real.

Mordred stops in his movements, eyes settling on him, and Arthur meets his gaze. “I—“ he starts, but his voice is nothing more than a croak and he absently notes that he’s crying.

“I know,” Mordred says softly, offering him a weak smile before turning his attention back to Merlin. Arthur’s not sure what he knows, isn’t even sure _he_ does, but he nods anyway before looking back down.

He should probably ask if Merlin’s going to be okay, should be able to form at least one coherent thought, but he can’t tear his eyes away. Can’t do anything but run his hands over warm skin, alive, alive, _alive_ , and pray that he’s not just dreaming again.

When Merlin’s eyes blink open and he’s met with blue, he snatches his hand back as if burnt.

Merlin groans, eyes clenching shut as his whole body shudders. Then his eyes snap open, flicking from Mordred to Arthur and around the throne room before panic settles into them and he tries to get up.

“No!” Arthur snaps out, one hand finding Merlin’s shoulder and pressing down. “No, you’re not going to leave. Not again—I swear, I’ll tear apart all of the Five Kingdoms if you even _dare_ to think about it.”

A beat, and then Merlin’s body goes limp, his eyes shutting briefly before he meets Arthur’s gaze. “You would, wouldn’t you,” he says tiredly, the hint of a smile touching his lips before resignation takes over his face. “Just—promise me one thing, would you?”

“ _Anything_.”

“Try hanging this time, alright? It’s less messy, and probably less painful as well,” he says before slipping away again.

Cold dread washes over him and he can do nothing but stare at Merlin’s pale face. There are voices around him and maybe a hand on his arm, but it’s only when someone slaps him across the face that he manages to pull his mind back from the precipice Merlin’s words, so very resigned and accepting, have left him on.

“He—he thinks I’d execute him. Again,” he chokes, surprised when he finds Gwaine and Lancelot kneeling across from him.

Gwaine winces and exchanges a glance with Mordred. “I’m sure he didn’t mean—“

“And _you_ ,” Arthur spits, the shock receding and giving way to the familiar anger that always comes when he’s too overwhelmed to process everything that’s happening. “You knew, and you didn’t think to tell me? I mean—I knew you’re more loyal to him but—“

“Arthur,” Lancelot’s calm voice interrupts, but it only fuels Arthur’s anger further.

A growl escapes him, and his hands hurt from how hard he’s clenching them into fists. “Did you know as well?” he hisses, wondering how little Merlin must think of him to not only assume that Arthur is going to execute him, but to let people he has known for a far shorter time than Arthur know that _he’s not dead_.

“No,” Lancelot shakes his head, lifting his hands. “I had my suspicion when he turned up with you and Gwaine yesterday, but I think he avoided me, and I didn’t spare it much thought.”

A hollow laugh forces itself out of his throat. Suspicions, yes, Arthur had his suspicions as well, for months now while everyone told him that there was no way that Merlin was alive. While he himself believed to be slowly going mad from grief and irrational hope.

Mordred clears his throat, offering them an apologetic smile when they all turn to look at him. “I get that this must be a shock, but you all need to let go of him for a moment. Otherwise, I can’t perform the spell I need to do.”

Arthur swallows around the tightness in his throat and takes a measured breath that does nothing against the pain in his chest. “Of course. Will he be alright?”

He should’ve asked this first, instead of focusing on everything else. Maybe Merlin did have a point in staying away after all.

“One way or another,” Mordred says with a shrug that doesn’t come across half as confidently as he probably meant it to be. He doesn’t offer any further information, turning his attention to Merlin and chanting words that Arthur has no hope of understanding.

A faint, blue glow materialises over Merlin’s chest and slowly spreads over his body. In places it turns darker, nearly melting into purple, and Arthur clenches his jaw at the small frown forming between Mordred’s brows.

Just as he ends the spell, Arthur’s roughly pushed away, nearly sent sprawling as his legs refuse to cooperate after sitting in a crouched position for gods know how long.

“What the—“ he curses, reaching for a sword that’s not there and halting when he registers the uniform of a Camelot guard. “What do you think you’re doing?” he snarls, jumping to his feet and ignoring how his legs prickle in protest.

“Your Majesty,” the guard stammers before straightening up and gesturing to where two other guards have Mordred restraint between them—who, for his part, looks mostly annoyed. “The boy was using sorcery—“

Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose and grits his teeth. “Believe it or not, I’ve noticed. Let him go, and make yourself useful by maybe arresting Morgana, instead of people who are clearly with me.”

“But—“

“Did you not understand me?” Arthur snaps, his patience wearing thin, and the guard drops into a quick bow.

He turns into the direction where Arthur had gestured but halts after a few seconds. “Your Majesty, I’m sorry but—where would we find Morgana?” he asks, hesitance clear in his tone, and Arthur nearly snaps again.

Biting back the words about incompetency that are on the tip of his tongue and sound too much like his father for comfort, he takes a moment to take in the throne room. Morgana isn’t where he saw her last, and a heavy weight settles in his stomach.

“Search the castle,” he orders, even though he doesn’t have much hope that it’ll turn up anything.

The guard bows once more but Arthur’s already turning back to where Mordred’s kneeling at Merlin’s side again while Gwaine glares at any of the guards who dare step too close to them.

“I’m sorry about that,” Arthur offers quietly, but Mordred merely waves him off.

“I could’ve stopped them if I wanted to,” he adds as if it’s an afterthought. “Anyway, Emrys is fine, mostly. Morgana’s spell was supposed to turn him to stone from the inside out—“

“What?” Arthur and Gwaine chorus while Lancelot pales, but Mordred huffs.

“But his shield must’ve weakened it, or his own magic counteracted it on its own. He’s mainly suffering from magical and physical exhaustion and a blow to his head,” Mordred finishes.

Arthur looks down at Merlin’s still form again, and his eyes linger on his steadily rising and falling chest. He’s still not completely convinced that any of this is real. “Magical exhaustion?” he asks after a beat, tearing his gaze away. “I thought—well…”

At his helpless gesture, Mordred smiles faintly. “Even someone as powerful as he has his limits. He’s kept up a powerful ageing spell for several days and used a lot of difficult magic on top of that. Combined with the stress, the lack of sleep, and well—let’s call it the emotional side of everything, it’s not much of a surprise that fighting off Morgana’s spell was just one thing too many.”

“Well, good thing he’s—“ Gwaine starts but is cut off by Mordred’s very unsubtle elbow digging into his ribs, accompanied by an impressive glare.

Arthur’s honestly too tired to ask.

“He needs rest,” Mordred says after he’s assured himself that Gwaine won’t start talking again.

Lancelot glances at Arthur, then down at Merlin, and breathes a soft sigh. “We should take him to Gaius, he kept Merlin’s room untouched. He’s not in the best condition, but Gwen’s with him and not many will disturb them right now.”

Before Arthur can say anything, much less react, Gwaine has already lifted Merlin up and is calling for Mordred. Arthur simply follows, a thousand questions still running rampage in his mind.

“Why didn’t he tell me?” he finally blurts, and the desperation in his voice is so unmistakable that he bites his tongue to keep any more words from spilling out.

Gwaine slows his steps and musters him carefully before he sighs, shifting Merlin’s weight in his arms. “He had his reasons, Arthur. I’m not saying that they were good or rational or that I agreed with him but—I think it would be better if you wait for him to wake up and ask him yourself.”

He rubs a hand over his face, trying to gather himself as best as possible and nods. “Yeah, I’m—you’re right.”

None of them says another word until they reach the physician’s tower, and Lancelot pushes the door open.

Gaius is lying on his small bed with Guinevere sitting at his side, while Leon and Elyan stand at the large table, talking quietly. All of them look up when they enter, though it’s Guinevere who speaks first.

“Arthur, I’m so glad to see you’re alright. Gaius isn’t well enough yet to treat any patients but if it’s not too serious, I can—“ she breaks off as Gwaine steps out from behind Arthur and Lancelot, and her eyes fall on Merlin.

“Is that—“

“What—“

“Merlin?” she croaks, somehow drowning out Leon’s and Elyan’s startled exclamations, and she’s across the room before Arthur can blink. She stares at Merlin for long moments and tears start rolling down her face until she turns away abruptly, burying her face in Lancelot’s chest.

Gwaine offers a weak smile to Elyan and Leon before nodding into the direction of the door that leads to Merlin’s room. When neither of them reacts, Arthur sighs softly and walks over himself to let Gwaine through.

“I’m going to stay with him,” he says as soon as Gwaine puts Merlin down on the bed, and there must be something in his expression that keeps Gwaine from arguing as he clearly intended to.

“Alright. As long as you don’t expect me or Mordred to leave, I can hardly stop you,” he says, sitting down on the floor next to Merlin’s bed and letting his head drop against the wall. “All the better if I’m not alone here when Gaius wakes up.”

Arthur doesn’t answer, merely drops into a chair at Merlin’s other side. He still can’t take his eyes off him, cataloguing all the small changes. From the stubble and the longer hair to his broadened shoulders and the dark circles underneath his eyes.

There’s still a faint buzzing in his ears and he feels shaky, his chest so tight that he has trouble to breathe properly. He doubts that he could explain what he’s feeling if his life depended on it—anger, relief, heartache, betrayal, it’s all mixing together and leaving him at a loss about where to start to untangle it all.

Most of all though, he’s terrified to avert his eyes for even a second; to blink and find that Merlin disappeared once again, to never get the chance to tell him what a colossal idiot he is for believing that Arthur could ever hurt him.

“He didn’t tell me, by the way,” Gwaine says quietly, and it takes Arthur a moment to process the words.

Frowning, he tilts his head. “What do you mean?”

Gwaine shrugs, fiddling with the chain around his neck as he watches Merlin. “He didn’t tell me on his own terms that he—survived. I met him and Mordred by accident, and simply refused to leave him alone again.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Arthur asks, but it doesn’t come out nearly as harsh as he wants it to.

If Gwaine’s small smile is anything to go by, he noticed. “Seemed like something that would matter to you,” he says, and Arthur doesn’t have it within himself to act like it doesn’t.

It doesn’t answer why Merlin didn’t tell him, or any of the other, hundreds of questions he has, but it appeases at least some of the jealousy that has been simmering underneath his skin since the realisation sunk in earlier.

He stays silent though, one hand loosely wrapped around Merlin’s wrist, as if that could keep him here as long as Arthur believes in it enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this has finally happened, yaaay. ~~If only it were this easy...~~ 😶


	10. I don't quite know what to say, but I'm here in your doorway

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I meant to upload this on Friday, but - as probably so many people - I was stuck to CNN, Twitter, and various news sources since Tuesday. At least the damned fucker is finally voted out, so yay to that! I hope you're all doing well and made it through the week alright. ❤️
> 
> Chapter title is from [Taylor Swift - this is me trying](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9bdLTPNrlEg)

The first coherent thought Merlin manages is solely for the sake of cursing Gwaine and Mordred into oblivion for getting him drunk again.

His head is pounding, his limbs feel like they’re made of lead, and he doubts he'd be able to move if his life depended on it.

When he tries to remember what method of persuasion they had used to drag him along this time, memories start flooding back and his eyes fly open despite his better judgement. He instantly winces at the sunlight sending flashes of pain through his head, but he ignores it in favour of sitting up.

“Easy there,” a voice says close to him, and his anxiety eases the barest amount when he immediately recognises it as Mordred’s. “Don’t even think about getting up.”

He stubbornly keeps his gaze fixed on Mordred kneeling next to the bed. There’s someone else in the room, _his old room_ , and he wants to think about who it is as little as about the question of why Gaius hasn’t changed anything in here.

“What happened?” he finally croaks, the sound grating against his throat, but he barely notices it; he’s fully focused on not panicking right now.

Mordred’s eyes flick to somewhere behind Merlin, but he sighs and says, “Morgana caught you with a spell that was supposed to turn you to stone. Either your shield weakened the spell, your magic fought it by itself or it was—“ he breaks off and winces, drawing another breath. “You passed out from exhaustion and got a mild concussion. I don’t know if it’s from your fall or occurred earlier in the fight.”

“And I guess my ageing spell failed when I passed out,” Merlin finishes, rubbing a hand over his face. Just exactly what he needed.

Someone clears their throat behind him, and it shouldn’t be enough to recognise it as Arthur, but it is.

Merlin closes his eyes briefly and his fingers clench in the blanket that’s pooling in his lap. He wishes he could be childish enough to bury himself in the bed and ignore everything around him, maybe pass out again. Anything to not deal with this.

But perhaps a part of him always knew that this would happen eventually, and if there’s one thing he had vowed to himself to stop doing, it’s hiding. The irony isn’t lost on him.

Still, before he turns around, he offers Mordred a weak smile. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

Even though he’s constantly been around Arthur for the last few days, facing him without a disguise is still a shock to his system, however little sense that makes.

His first thought is that Arthur looks a mess. He’s pale, his hair is sticking up, and his eyes are red-rimmed with dark circles underneath them only worsening the effect. His slouched posture looks so wrong on him that Merlin nearly forgets his own panic over the urge to console him.

They stare at each other for long moments before Arthur closes his eyes and exhales a measured breath, then turns towards Mordred. “Would you mind giving us a moment? I swear I won’t—“

“I know,” Mordred cuts him off before Arthur can finish whatever he was about to say. “Even Gwaine knows that and talk about overprotective.”

“Where is he?” Merlin asks, only now noting his absence, and his question stops Mordred at the door.

“He was here most of the time, but he’s currently helping Gwen to take care of the patients.”

The picture of _Gwaine_ and _healing_ doesn’t really fit, but Merlin ignores the thought. “How’s everyone? Gaius, Gwen—the others who were captured?”

Mordred silently musters him like he’s wondering if Merlin is merely asking to stall, but then, he should know better. “Not perfect, but they’re all going to be alright. Gaius was a bit worse for the wear, but I healed most of the damage,” he finally says and disappears through the door before Merlin can ask any more questions.

Silence settles in the room with the click of the door, heavy and stifling in a way that makes him want to crawl out of his skin. He can’t even look at Arthur however much he wants to, his eyes glued to his lap as he twirls a loose thread from the blanket around his finger again and again.

“Did you really think I would try to harm you?” Arthur finally asks, and there are so many conflicting emotions coating his voice that they’re indecipherable.

Merlin swallows, nearly unable to breathe around his heart beating in his throat, and he distantly wonders if he'd manage a transportation spell if he really put his mind to it. At the same time, there’s a memory of brief awareness, of Arthur ordering or begging him to not run again. Of his own plea for—

He cuts off that train of thought, unwilling to consider how it must’ve come across.

“I don’t know,” he finally answers, glancing at Arthur out of the corner of his eyes. “I—before all this happened, Agravaine and your father I mean, no. But then…” he trails off, giving a jerky shrug and a helpless gesture that doesn’t come close to explaining anything.

“But then I didn’t do anything to prevent your execution, and you saw me watching,” Arthur finishes quietly.

There’s a faint tremble to his voice that makes Merlin want to protest, to just tell him that it’s alright and forget about it, but he swore not to lie any more.

So, he inclines his head and chews on his bottom lip. “I mean—I know that there were no executions since mine and that you’ve made peace with the Druids. But then, this is a bit more personal, isn’t it? I lied to you, and at least your father was convinced that I was merely waiting for the right moment to strike.”

“And you really thought I believed that? That your lies would be enough for me to hate you, to want to see you _dead_?” Arthur asks, and now there are the first signs of anger in his voice that Merlin expected.

He can feel his own anger rising in return. It’s exactly why he has avoided this for so long, hasn’t planned to ever put himself into this situation, and it’s only made worse by the position he’s in. His whole body hurts, and he can barely feel his magic simmering underneath his skin.

The helplessness causes his heart to race uncomfortably fast, and he has to swallow a few times to make sure his voice won’t break. “How was I supposed to know? What did you expect me to do, to waltz right back into Camelot and test out if you had it within yourself to forgive me? To risk getting executed all over again?”

He finally meets Arthur’s eyes, his own jaw clenched, and finds such a mixture of fury and hurt there that it knocks the breath out of him.

“You left all of us in the belief that you were _dead_ ,” Arthur spits, his hands curling into fists, and even though Merlin is perfectly aware of what he’s done, he still recoils from the accusation like he would from a physical blow. “I nearly went mad with grief. Do you know what it did to Gaius, to Gwen, your _mother_ —“

“Shut up,” Merlin hisses, and he barely recognises his own voice. “You don’t get to blame me for saving my own skin for once. I had to leave behind my home, my friends, my family, because your father _executed_ me, Arthur. You have no right to try making me feel guilty when I couldn’t even tell my own _mother_ that I’m alive out of fear for her safety.”

Arthur pales, and Merlin nearly regrets his words; only nearly though. It’s not like he doesn’t understand—like he hasn’t tossed and turned so many nights that he lost count, the guilt eating away at him.

“Well you survived, didn’t you? You saved yourself, and I don’t understand how none of us was worth the risk, how you could let everyone assume that they’d lost you. Did you _ever_ plan to come back?” Arthur’s voice is steadily getting louder, a muscle in his jaw jumping, and Merlin can’t help but flinch when Arthur suddenly gets out of the chair.

The second he does, Arthur freezes, staring at him with wide eyes and guilt creeping into his expression. Then he shakes his head, his features hardening again, and his voice is flat when he says, “It’s not like you wouldn’t have been able to avoid capture if things had gone wrong, and even if you don’t want to see it, Merlin, I never expected you to be such a selfish coward.”

And that’s it, Merlin thinks, the simmering anger flaring hot and bright, intense enough that he momentarily forgets about his exhaustion. He’s out of his bed in the blink of an eye, stepping so close to Arthur that he can see the small mole at the corner of his eye, the faint line of freckles covering the bridge of his nose.

“I didn’t survive, Arthur, I _died_ ,” he snarls, his fists trembling at his sides with the effort it takes to keep himself from shoving at Arthur’s chest. “I was bound to a pyre and I _burnt_ , I burnt until I passed out because I couldn’t breathe any longer. And then I woke up in the Crystal Cave, to the image of my dead father telling me that _I can’t die_. That destiny won’t even let me get out of this mess after your father murdered me for healing your bloody horse.”

There’s a faint voice telling him that he should shut up. That Arthur’s eyes are shining with horror and guilt which, any other day, he wouldn’t be able to bear, but he can’t seem to stop the words from spilling out. “And as if that wasn’t enough, I still couldn’t give up on you. Not because of destiny but because I still couldn’t stand the thought of anything happening to you.”

A mirthless laugh wrenches itself out of his throat, and he shakes his head. “So I kept watch, on you and everyone here I hold dear, even though I knew that most of them would run me through at the first chance. I kept watch on all your enemies, and I warned you, and when you didn’t listen, I turned up to save you as I’ve always done. Hell, I nearly saved your father again just because I knew how much it would hurt you to lose him and when I didn’t, I blamed myself for it, _for_ _weeks_.”

He takes a deep breath, his teeth grinding together. “So don’t you _dare_ tell me that I’m selfish or a coward. I swear to the goddess, if you ever so much as imply such a thing again, I will leave, and I will leave for good.”

His breathing is ragged, and he can feel his legs trembling underneath him. As soon as he tries to take a step back, he nearly stumbles. Arthur moves as if wanting to reach for him but snatches his hand back.

Merlin doesn’t want to sit down again; he wants to leave, to run and run and run until he’s back at Ynys Gybi and doesn’t have to look at Arthur’s stricken face any longer. He wants to take the words back, wants to reverse the last hour and maybe start over because apparently, he’s a colossal idiot who still can’t stand the sight of Arthur as anything but happy.

His body doesn’t seem to care for what he wants though, and it would figure that the one time he really needs his magic to do something for himself, it would abandon him. With a deep sigh, he flops back onto the bed and thumps his head against the wall, closing his eyes.

There’s nothing left in him to say, and he’s not sure if he even wants to hear Arthur’s answer. He’s too tired to tell him to leave though, and lets the silence wash over him, uncomfortable and heavy while Arthur’s eyes don’t leave him for a second.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur finally breathes, and his voice sounds so choked that Merlin looks at him before he can stop himself. His eyes are too bright even in the dim room, and Merlin bites back a wince when Arthur drops into the chair again, burying his face in his hands.

Still, he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t think there’s much he _could_ say that wouldn’t be a lie or a platitude. He can hear the erratic rhythm of Arthur’s breathing, can see the faint tremble in his shoulders, and his chest aches at what they’ve become.

He wouldn’t be able to say how much time has passed when Arthur lifts his head, his eyes red and dull as they take in Merlin once more. “Why— _how_ can you still bring yourself to help me? Gods Merlin—after everything, how can you even stand the sight of me?”

Merlin has to avert his eyes, fixing them on the door as he tries to gather his thoughts to come up with an answer that’s not along the lines of ‘ _because apparently, I’m an idiot who fell in love with you years ago.’_

“Because you are—were my friend,” is what he settles on, and it sounds hollow and empty even to his own ears. “Because while I didn’t want to come back, I still have people here who are important to me.”

Arthur doesn’t answer for a long time, and Merlin doesn’t press. There are faint noises coming from the workshop, and he wonders how he’s supposed to have this conversation at least three more times. He has no doubt that Gwen, Lancelot, and Gaius, at least, are going to expect answers as well, and if this right here is anything to go by, it won’t be any easier.

Then again, Arthur and he always had the most volatile relationship, and maybe he can convince Gwaine to stay around for the next time.

“I—“ Arthur starts, and Merlin turns his head to look at him. If he thought Arthur looked a mess when Merlin woke up, it was nothing compared to now. There are an uncertainty and doubt to him that seem out of place, no matter how often Merlin has seen him struggle with himself. For the first time today, he wants to smooth it all away.

The annoying, niggling voice in the back of his mind insists on how ridiculous this whole fight is. Arthur obviously doesn’t mean him any harm, might’ve not even hated him before this latest stunt, and Merlin—Merlin has missed him more than he could possibly put into words. He’s not even certain that he still knows what they’re fighting about, except that it all boils down to one big misunderstanding that could’ve been prevented if they had only once talked to each other.

Preferably a few years ago.

His throat closes up, and he breathes deeply before shifting on the bed, leaning forward to meet Arthur’s eyes despite his ducked head. “Look,” he starts, and his own voice is hoarse now, all the fight and pent-up frustration drained out of it. “It’s—I’m not saying that it’s going to be easy, but it’s going to be alright, okay?”

Arthur’s lips purse and he shakes his head, staring at Merlin with poorly concealed guilt. “How can you say that? Honestly, you—I should tell you that you’re free to do whatever you want, to leave. To never turn back and forget all about the things that happened to you here. But I can’t even bring myself to do that, can’t bring myself to not hope and expect and if I have to, _beg_ you to stay. What does that make me if not the most selfish person after I just accused you of being the very same?”

Despite all the tension that’s suffocation the room, despite his heart sitting firmly in his throat and threatening to choke him, Merlin is helpless against the small smile, and he uses his last strength to scoot forward farther until he’s close enough to touch.

“You’re an idiot,” he presses out, and before Arthur can protest, tugs at him until he’s close enough for Merlin to wrap his arms around his shoulders.

Arthur freezes under his touch before his whole body shudders, and then he’s clinging to Merlin, fingers clenching into the back of his tunic as if he’s going to slip away any second.

Merlin can practically feel months upon months of fear and loneliness and longing melt off his own shoulders. Arthur still smells like lavender and leather-polish, and Merlin can do nothing but bury his head in the crook of his neck and soak it all in.

He’s not sure if it’s him who’s shaking all over or Arthur, or maybe it’s both of them; he’s not sure either if all their resolve is going to be enough to come close to fixing them, but right now, he can’t bring himself to cling to the doubts.

“Please Merlin, please don’t leave again,” Arthur whispers into his shoulder, so quiet that he nearly misses it, and he instinctively tightens his grip.

There’s a part of him that’s still terrified, and he knows that it won’t be as easy as this. “I won’t disappear again, not for good,” he settles on, and it’s not enough, obvious in the way Arthur shudders again and clings to him even more strongly, but it’s all he can currently give.

Eventually, his exhaustion catches up on him. His neck hurts from the strange position they’re in, his arms are cramping, and he can’t help but sag in Arthur’s hold.

“You’re an idiot,” Arthur echoes, moving him until he’s propped up against his pillows, and something warm uncurls in his stomach at the note of teasing.

Apparently, Arthur has no intention to leave, seeing that he pulls the chair closer to sit back down. His gaze is contemplating, and Merlin lets him think while watching him silently. Now that he’s no longer consumed by fear and anger, the familiar affection he’s tried to bury for so long is welling to the surface, and it’s nearly overwhelming.

Arthur shifts, his fingers busy where they’re playing with his mother’s ring, but eventually, he meets Merlin’s eyes again. “You said you’ve warned me.”

Merlin nods, more than willing to be distracted from his own thoughts.

“So, those dreams…?”

He smiles faintly, inclining his head. “Not that they did much good, but yes, that was me sending you warnings.”

A frown etches itself between Arthur’s brows and his hands still, his eyes narrowing as he musters Merlin carefully. “Ignoring the logic behind thinking that I'd heed them while also believing you dead—I can understand the intention. What I don’t understand is… If you never intended to return, why the memories?” he asks, and there’s a strain to his voice that briefly distracts Merlin from the actual question.

Shaking his head and forcing himself to focus, he frowns. “What memories?”

Arthur huffs and his lips purse as they always do when impatience is threatening to get the better of him. After the last few days, it’s comforting to still be able to read him so easily.

“You’ve not only sent me dreams where you talked to me, delivering warnings. There were also—“ Arthur falters, averting his eyes again and drawing a deep breath before going on. “Some of the things you’ve done, you showed me. It was like experiencing them from your perspective, everything you did for me, and I don't—“ he swallows, and his voice is hoarse while his hands are clenching.

“I can understand why you might’ve wanted me to know, to make me see how wrong what my father did was but I—I’m not sure how much longer…”

This time, he doesn’t go on but underneath the confusion about what he’s talking about, Merlin has a suspicion of what he’s not saying. Whatever he’s been dreaming about, Merlin knows better than anyone how draining it is, to be reminded night after night.

There’s a nearly forgotten memory pushing to the surface, of sneaking into Arthur’s tent before the battle with Queen Annis’ champion; of Arthur waking up and seeing him, stating that it was a better dream than the others. Merlin’s throat constricts as the implications start to sink in.

“I'd never do that,” he chokes out, staring at Arthur in quiet horror. “No matter how angry or disappointed or hurt, I'd never actively try to make you feel bad.”

He wants to ask how Arthur cannot know that, but they’ve both shown a lack of trust in each other over the last year that won’t be salvaged in an afternoon. Gods, but what a colossal mess they both are.

At least Arthur’s frown is more puzzled than disbelieving. With his shoulders hunched and eyes dulled, Merlin has to resist the urge to pull him into another hug, to cling to him until all the hurt is drained from both of them.

If only it were that easy.

“They were real though,” Arthur says quietly, and he still won’t meet Merlin’s eyes, his gaze resting somewhere to the side and vacant like he’s not quite here. “They matched up with things Gaius and Lancelot told me later on, even though there was no way I could’ve known about them.”

“Gaius and Lancelot told you?” Merlin asks before he can stop himself, and he’s not sure if he’s wary or glad about the prospect of maybe not having to tell Arthur all of it himself.

Arthur smiles faintly, a small twitch of his lips that still comes across as unbearably fond. “At first, I wasn’t all that keen to hear more, but at some point, Leon insisted. After that, the dreams started, and I sought out Gaius eventually,” he explains, and then his small smile grows into a grin and he looks straight at Merlin. “The impression I got, _Mer_ lin, is that you’re an even bigger idiot than I thought.”

A startled laugh breaks out of him, and he shakes his head while flicking his finger to send a pillow flying into Arthur’s face, only to freeze the second his brain catches up to what he just did.

For a beat, Arthur stares at him with wide, disbelieving eyes, a faint flush creeping over his cheeks. Before the fear can take hold in Merlin’s chest though, Arthur throws his head back and _laughs_ , his whole body shaking with it.

Merlin’s completely helpless against the grin that’s threatening to split his face; against his heart speeding up with suffocating fondness and hope and _by the goddess, there are no words to express how much I missed you, you absolute prat._

“Case in point,” Arthur says when he’s calmed down again, and for a moment, he simply watches Merlin with unmistakable warmth in his eyes. Then he sobers, the frown reappearing. “If you didn’t send me those memories on purpose, then how is it possible that I dreamt of them before ever being told?”

It takes his sluggish brain a moment, but then understanding hits him like the kick of a horse, and he’s unable to completely hide the resulting wince. “I’m not sure,” he starts slowly, tipping his head back to avoid looking at Arthur.

“Merlin—“ Arthur starts, annoyance clear in his tone, but he audibly swallows before going on, hesitance suddenly back. “I’m—I know that I don’t have the right to ask anything of you but please, _please—_ no more lies.”

For the umpteenth time since he woke up, Merlin’s heart is beating in his throat. This feels much bigger than choosing what to say, as if it’s going to decide about the fate of their relationship. He hysterically thinks that he should be way less exhausted for making these kinds of decisions.

Then again, it really isn’t much of a question. “Do you remember,” he starts, ducking his head and watching his fingers fiddle with the edge of his blanket. “Shortly after I’d started working for you, someone tried to poison you.”

“And you drank it despite knowing what would happen,” Arthur continues quietly, and Merlin’s not sure what he wouldd find in Arthur’s expression if he looked. He can’t bring himself to check.

Instead, he simply nods, choosing his words carefully. “When you went to get the antidote, you were attacked by Nimueh and she left you to die in those caves. You would’ve died…” he trails off, at a loss for how to explain this without the risk of freaking Arthur out.

He never expected to wish back for the time when he could simply brush things off with half-arsed theories and mediocre explanations.

“It was you,” Arthur breathes, and there’s more wonder in his tone than anything else. “You sent the light, didn’t you? The same one you used when you sent me those warnings.”

“ _That’s_ what you saw?” Merlin asks, too surprised to keep his eyes averted, and they stare at each other for a beat too long before Merlin sighs and shrugs. “I never knew how I did it, Gaius said it shouldn’t have been possible. I mean, I wasn’t even conscious, but not only did I somehow know that you were in danger, but I also managed to use my magic over the distance to help you out.”

Arthur hums, and when Merlin glances at him out of the corner of his eye, there’s a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Anyway,” he finally says, forcing himself to focus back on what he was trying to say in the first place. “As I said, I never figured out how I did it, and I’ll need to check my books back at—back home.”

He doesn’t miss the flinch at the word but pretends he did, exhaling a slow breath before going on. “The warnings I sent you were on purpose, using a crystal usually intended for scrying when I assumed you were asleep. For all intents and purposes, it shouldn’t have worked, but then my magic was always—different. My only theory is that there’s… That through our destiny, we have some kind of bond that eventually led to my own dreams reaching you, at least when they involved you.”

It's a very simplistic version of what he’s actually suspecting but he can’t bring himself to mention anything close to ‘two halves of a whole,’ or soul-bonds. Not with how dangerously close it would veer to the one secret he intends to keep at all costs.

He also does need to check his books to hopefully find more on the matter anyway, so it’s not really omitting the truth. Preferably, he’ll also come up with a way to stop it at the same time; the last thing he needs is for Arthur to get any of his other dreams on top of everything else.

Of course, Arthur has never been one to go along with Merlin’s perfectly good plans, something he’s apparently keen to prove is still true. “Does that have to do with the whole ‘two sides of a coin–‘ thing Gaius talked about?” he asks, and Merlin’s stomach sinks so fast that it leaves him lightheaded.

“He told you about that?” he murmurs, more to himself, but he has little doubt that Arthur heard him. 

Arthur shrugs, and when Merlin glances at him, he finds him looking surprisingly calm. “He mentioned it. Do you think it goes both ways?”

For a moment, Merlin only stares at him, trying to wrap his head around the lack of freaking-out in the face of something so obviously magic. Something so obviously binding them together in a manner that goes way, _way_ beyond king and servant, beyond anything that’s even remotely normal for friendship.

Maybe it’s the exhaustion, but when Arthur still doesn’t show any signs of wanting to run out of the room, Merlin decides to take what he can get. “I don’t know,” he says with a sigh, leaning his head back. “I really do have to try and look it up. Though—“ he stops, frowning when he goes over his own dreams from the last few months. “A lot of my nightmares about my—about the execution didn’t feel like they were happening to me, but…”

“But like it was me, being forced to watch?” Arthur finishes, his voice breaking over the words, and this time he’s pale when Merlin glances at him, his eyes suddenly haunted again.

It’s this, more than anything else that has been said between them over the last hour, that lets Merlin finally understand. That finally lets him see what exactly it did to Arthur, his death and the nightmares and his absence. His sudden reappearance, the revelation that Merlin has been alive but unwilling to return home, lacking the trust to believe that Arthur wouldn’t harm him.

His hands shake when he reaches out for Arthur’s, and while he can’t apologise for something that is neither of their faults, he makes a silent vow to not let them be torn apart again.

Merlin doesn’t know how long they sit like this, hands clasped together so tightly that it hurts while neither looking at each other nor saying a word. The warmth of Arthur’s fingers between his somehow grounds him enough to keep the doubts at bay. To keep him from squashing down the hope that’s steadily growing and spreading through his chest, allowing himself to believe, for the first time in a year, that they’re going to be alright.

Eventually, it’s a knock on the door that startles them both. Arthur stiffens and pulls his hand back before jumping to his feet, though he stops in his movements when he meets Merlin’s eyes.

“I—I should go, check on how everything’s going,” he finally says, and Merlin has to suppress a smile at the sudden discomfort that’s radiating off of him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he’s been wondering about Arthur’s sudden ability to actually talk about his feelings, and he held out for much longer than Merlin expected.

Still, Arthur waits until Merlin nods and smiles before he turns and walks towards the door. He stops with his hand on the handle, visibly drawing a breath before turning back once more. “You—I’ll see you tomorrow?”

It comes out as more of a question than anything else, and Merlin can read the fear that’s lying underneath it as if it’s spelt out for the world to see.

“I’m not going to just disappear again,” he vows, and while Arthur only gives a sharp nod, his whole posture seems to relax as he slips out of the door.

He barely has time to close his eyes and take a deep breath before the door creaks again, and he bites down on a groan.

Gwaine’s leaning in the doorway, his arms crossed loosely over his chest and an amused tilt to his lips. “How did it go with the princess?”

Merlin runs a hand over his face and lets his head drop against the wall once more. “As well as can be expected, I suppose,” he finally says, his thoughts still whirring with it all. “You don’t feel like having this conversation with the rest of them for me, do you?”

It’s an absolute travesty that his pleading look gets nothing but a snort out of Gwaine.

“Yeah, I guessed so,” he mutters anyway, his chest clenching at the prospect of facing another three rounds of this.

“Sorry, but I already had to defend myself for keeping your secret,” Gwaine says, but his features soften when he sees what can only be dread on Merlin’s face.

Closing the door behind himself, he takes the chair Arthur just vacated and nudges Merlin’s foot with his own. “You know, they’re happy that you’re alive, first and foremost. Gaius woke up some time ago, and while he was shocked, he also seemed to have just won twenty years of his life back. They’re just also—somewhere between angry and at a loss for why you didn’t let them know, but I think they’ll understand.”

“That implies that I have to explain though, and I don't—you said yourself that I should return more than once. So clearly, I didn’t have the best of reasons,” he croaks, his throat constricting.

He’s not keen to let everyone know his exact reasons as he did with Arthur; he’s not sure he would’ve told Arthur if not for the fury making him spill everything. “Part of me simply wants to leave again,” he whispers, and he knows it only proves that maybe he’s exactly the coward Arthur accused him of being, but all the implications of explaining himself are like a weight sitting on his chest, strangling the air out of him.

“I’m sure they'd understand if you wanted to catch some more sleep first?” Gwaine offers, and his voice is decidedly softer than before.

Merlin considers it, but eventually, he shakes his head. They’re his friends, and he’s only going to work himself into more of a state the longer he puts this off. It can’t be worse than facing Arthur, right?

“No—thank you, really, but they deserve to get their answers. Could you send Mordred with something to get me back on my feet?” he asks, and if they both know that there’s also an _‘in case I end up wanting to leave,’_ tucked into that sentence, Gwaine is kind enough to not mention it as he squeezes Merlin’s shoulder and gets to his feet.

It’s like no time has passed at all until Mordred has given him a potion that takes the edge off his exhaustion, and Merlin stands with his hand on the door handle, trying to steel himself.

He swallows against the panic that’s trying to crawl up his throat and shakes himself. “Right, I’ve faced dragons and High Priestesses and immortal armies, I can do this,” he mutters to himself, pulling the door open.

Immediately, the room falls silent, and three pairs of eyes land on him, while Mordred and Gwaine are at least pretending to not watch closely.

“Uhm—hi?” he tries, and he’s barely taken a step out of the doorway when Gwen’s in front of him, her arms like a vice around his neck.

For the fraction of a second, he freezes, and then slowly lifts his arms to return her hug, burying his face in her hair. His heart lurches in his chest and there are tears burning in his eyes, the familiar smell of rosemary and wildflowers making him forget about everything else.

Before he can say anything, she’s pulling back and hitting every available spot of him she can reach. “Merlin, how dare you? How could you just disappear for over a year and not let any of us know? Not even your mother, but Gwaine! Of all people, _Gwaine_ , Merlin! I was your first friend here and you go and let that scoundrel know—“

“Hey!”

“Gwen—“ he tries, attempting to pull away from her because while she may be more than a head shorter than him, her fists hitting his chest and his arms are still surprisingly painful. She doesn’t let him though, twisting one hand into the front of his tunic, and when he finally manages to pull back far enough to look at her, her eyes are blazing with anger while tears are streaming down her face.

“I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry, I—“ he starts, and she finally stops hitting him though the anger doesn’t fade from her expression.

He finally gets a look at the rest of them. Lancelot is leaning against one of the tables with his arms crossed over his chest and an unreadable expression that makes Merlin’s stomach churn while Gaius is still sitting on his cot, his face pale and hands visibly shaking in his lap.

Merlin chokes on a sob and presses a hand against his mouth. He’s not sure if he wouldn’t have run again if not for Gwaine suddenly appearing at his side, resting a firm, warm hand on his shoulder.

“Let a man say hello to everyone and find a seat so he can explain, eh?” Gwaine says, and underneath the cheer, there’s an unmistakeable note of steel. Merlin has never been more grateful for his presence.

Drawing a deep breath, he rubs the sleeve of his tunic over his eyes and offers Gwen a small smile before drawing her into another hug. “I really am sorry,” he whispers into her ear, and she squeezes him tightly before letting go and pushing him into Gaius’ direction.

Despite the terror still trying to strangle him, hugging Gaius is like coming home. It’s the smell of potions and herbs, the indecipherable feeling of _no matter what kind of nonsense you get up to, you’ll always be like my son,_ and it’s the first time since his fight against Morgana that he doesn’t feel the distant urge to flee.

It doesn’t last nearly long enough, but a part deep within him is decidedly calmer when he finally draws back and turns towards the room, his hand not leaving Gaius’ shoulder quite yet.

Lancelot’s still standing in the same spot, still with the same closed-off, guarded expression on his face, only raising a hand to stop him when Merlin opens his mouth to speak.

“Merlin, I’m—don’t get me wrong, I can’t begin to explain how happy I am that you’re alive and well but you—but I don’t think I can listen to you yet. Out of everyone, your mother and Gaius notwithstanding, I would've thought you knew that you can trust me,” he says, and Merlin would have to be deaf to miss the deep hurt and disappointment that’s ringing through his words.

“It’s not—“ he starts, but breaks off again when Lancelot shakes his head.

Lancelot’s eyes are apologetic, but it doesn’t stop him from straightening up and saying, “I’m—I’ll need time.” With that, he turns on his heel and disappears out of the room.

The click of the door seems too loud, and it startles Merlin out of his shock. “It wasn’t about trust,” he bursts out, frustration bubbling in his chest. “Of course I trust you, all of you,” he goes on, looking from Gwen to Gaius and silently begging them to understand. “But after the last time, I simply couldn’t risk your safety, _again_. It’s a miracle Uther and Agravaine didn’t do anything to you, and I—how was I supposed to know—I just couldn’t be sure that Arthur—“

“Merlin, I understand,” Gaius interrupts, his hand coming up to rest on Merlin’s arm, and of course he would.

At the same time, Gwen says, “You really thought Arthur would do that?” and he’s not sure if that’s compassion or disbelief in her tone.

He closes his eyes and draws a deep breath before dropping into the chair that’s standing next to Gaius’ bed. “How was I supposed to know?” he repeats quietly, looking at Gwen and wondering if it’s really so hard to imagine. “I simply couldn’t risk it—or put you, of all people, into a position where you would've had to lie to him.”

Gwen’s expression twists, her lips pressing into a thin line while her brows draw together as if she can’t quite decide what emotion to settle on. In the end, she slightly shakes her head though and pulls herself up. “Merlin, do you have any idea what it did to him?” she asks softly, and there’s no accusation in her voice, just a deep sorrow that he doesn’t understand.

“Well, he did say—but he still had you, and Gaius, and the knights—“

“No, Merlin, you don’t—“ she starts, then makes a frustrated noise in the back in her throat and starts to pace. “I’m—I can’t say that I get it, but I’m not completely blaming you either, I’m sure you had your reasons,” she says, turning to look at him. “But Arthur was—he didn’t talk to any of us, not really. It very nearly undid him—all of us, to be honest, but him maybe the most. And while I’m not—while I know that it must’ve been just as hard for you, you have to understand that it will take some time for us to—to accept that, to come and see it all from your perspective.”

There’s a clatter from the corner where Mordred’s sitting, cutting off Merlin’s answer—not that he has any idea what he’s supposed to say.

“Okay, listen—“

“Mordred,” he tries, but Mordred throws a glare in his direction that might not be as intimidating as he means it to be, but still tells Merlin that any kind of protest is futile in the long run.

 _‘Be nice,_ ’ he settles on warning mentally, and Mordred spares him another glance as he gets up, leaning against the table where Lancelot stood earlier.

“I’m not saying that I don’t get where you’re coming from,” Mordred directs at Gwen, and to her credit, she merely raises her brows. “But I’m going to tell you the same thing I said to Gwaine when he discovered that Emrys—Merlin was still alive.”

Merlin only just catches the grimace Gwaine pulls before giving a shrug and settling back in his chair.

“None of you—except for Gaius, maybe—have the faintest idea how it is to have magic in a kingdom that actively hunts us down. To fear for your life day in and day out, for the life of anyone close to you. To fear that the people who you consider your friends might turn their backs on you and hand you over if they ever found out—or burn alongside you if they don’t,” Mordred says, and his eyes are solely fixed on Gwen while his voice is quiet and serious.

“But we’d never—“ she tries, but Mordred shakes his head, offering her a small smile.

“I know, but still— _you do not understand_ what it’s like to grow up with the warnings whispered in your ear before you can even comprehend what they mean. You can never understand if you haven’t lived it. Even less, you can hope to understand how it is for someone like Merlin. He didn’t just survive, he died—“

“Mordred,” Merlin interrupts, half out of his chair, but the soft gasp coming from Gwen is more than enough to let him know that it’s too late to salvage this in any way.

Mordred, for his part, only looks at him calmly. “I know that you don’t like to think, much less talk about it, but ignoring it will neither help you nor any of your friends to get past this,” he says, and Merlin grinds his teeth at the truth of it.

“He died and came back because that is his destiny. His destiny, that singles him out not only in his home, but among his own kind without him ever having a say in any of it,” Mordred says, and the words struck Merlin as they had the first time.

Mordred draws a breath, his fingers trailing along the edge of the table as he seems to weigh his words. “I’m not saying that you have no right to be hurt about being left in the belief that he’s dead, and I’m not even claiming that all his reasons for not telling you are completely logical. But maybe consider what actually happened to him here and ask yourself if _you_ could be logical after all that. If you would return here, instead of staying at a place where you don’t have to hide or be afraid any longer—for yourself and everyone around you.”

There’s another pause where Mordred’s whole posture softens, and Merlin can’t bring himself to look at Gwen or Gaius. “Seriously, the one to blame is Uther, neither Em—Merlin nor any of you,” he finishes, and Merlin didn’t know how much he needed to hear this up until now.

He still can’t bring himself to look at anyone but Mordred; can’t bring himself to face the pity and the horror and the guilt, as if any of it is an excuse to abandon his friends and family for a year, with no plans of coming back. Can’t face the sight of their knowing eyes—knowing that it was nothing but a mistake, a defeat that shouldn’t have happened that has him sitting here.

There’s no urge to run anymore. What does it matter anyway if he can never outrun the knowledge, now shared on too many shoulders of those who will watch him and wonder; wonder how human he really is, wonder how he can bear it, how he will bear it when they inevitably leave him behind.

Because that’s what it comes down to, in the end, isn't it? The question he has tried to avoid for months now, so glaringly obvious that it was a damned attempt from the start, trying not to face it—what he’s going to do when they’re all gone, sooner or later.

It was so much easier to pretend as long as he didn’t have to face them. To pretend that he had a choice, had already lost them; that it would be a slow farewell, watching them live their lives from afar until they would eventually fade from existence.

As if he wouldn’t have noticed and grieved each and every one of their deaths. He wants to laugh at the ridiculousness of his own logic. Wants to scream and shout and call lightning from the sky until the earth is scorched with his fury at the unfairness of it all.

He’s startled out of his spiralling thoughts when Gaius’ arms wrap around his shoulders, and he instantly sags in the hold. Gods but he missed Gaius’ hugs, missed the feeling of _home_ , and _safe_ , and _everything is going to be alright_.

When another pair of arms join the first and Gwen murmurs into his ear, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Merlin,” he doesn’t bother holding the tears back any longer.

A sob rips free of his throat, another follows, and he has to struggle for breath as tears soak the fabric in front of his face; he can’t tell if it’s Gaius’ or Gwen’s. “I’m sorry too,” he still presses out, and, “I missed you, gods, I missed you so much.”

It doesn’t make everything alright, but he feels lighter than he has in a long time.

* * *

Merlin’s woken up by the door banging against the wall. He has to bite down on the spell that’s sitting on the tip of his tongue when he makes out Arthur in the doorway, his hair ruffled and cheeks flushed, panting like he’s been running the whole way up here.

“You’re still here,” Arthur breathes, and just like that, the last day comes crushing back. With it comes the understanding of the relief shining in Arthur’s eyes, of the way his whole posture relaxes, and the weird mixture of guilt and fondness that’s threatening to choke Merlin.

After a few, tense seconds, the latter wins out, and he smiles softly. “I told you I wouldn’t be going anywhere you prat,” he says, rolling his shoulders to get a crick out of his neck. “What are you doing here this early? And how did you get your manservant to let you out of your quarters like that?”

The flush on Arthur’s cheeks impossibly darkens, and it takes all of Merlin’s willpower to not watch it spread down the pale neck right down to his chest.

“I know that you have a hard time believing it, _Mer_ lin, but I _am_ able to take care of myself,” Arthur huffs, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth that makes something sing underneath Merlin’s ribs.

“Really?” he teases, tilting his head and giving in to the urge to rake his eyes up and down Arthur’s body. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“Anyway,” Arthur says, rolling his eyes, and it’s easy, so very easy to let himself believe that nothing has changed. “Have breakfast with me?”

And just like that, the illusion shatters, and it’s Merlin’s turn to stare, floundering for words. “I—right. Yes. Sure, why not,” he finally manages, throwing off the blanket to get out of bed. “Give me a minute to get dressed, would you?”

Arthur lingers for a moment, staring at him with a small crease between his brows, but then he gives a sharp nod and leaves the room.

There are so many questions running through his mind that he decides to bother with none of them. Unfortunately, the most pressing ones aren’t deterred by focusing on washing and dressing, and it’s with a heavy weight in his stomach that he slips into the workshop.

The light is dim here, the sun barely high enough to reach through the windows, and he briefly allows himself to take in the room before his eyes settle on Gaius and Arthur, quietly talking over by Gaius’ bed.

He can’t make out what they’re saying but there’s a casualness to both of them that Merlin doesn’t remember. Thankfully, he’s saved from feeling like he’s intruding when Arthur’s eyes find him, the smile on his face growing instantly.

The weight in Merlin’s stomach only worsens. “I’m not—do you think it’s a good idea? For me to be seen, I mean, it’s going to be difficult to explain.”

“I think that ship has sailed when half of Camelot saw you after your fight with Morgana, don’t you think?” Arthur says dryly, a note of exasperation in his voice. “We’re going to think of something. Now come on, I sent for food from the kitchen.”

The walk to Arthur’s chambers is silent, and with each passing step, Merlin can feel the tension thicken between them. He doesn’t know what to say to ease it though, his mind running in circles around everything that’s still unsaid, and the strangeness of being back here at all.

Arthur’s chambers are startingly unchanged, though Merlin doesn’t know what he expected. Maybe it’s a bit cleaner than it used to be, and the food spread out on the table is definitely far more than he used to bring, but apart from that, he could deceive himself into believing that no time has passed at all.

When he finally shakes himself out of the weird mood he’s slipped into, he finds Arthur already watching him, his lips pressed into a thin line. “It’s—I never expected to see you here again,” he says quietly, as if Merlin wasn’t really supposed to hear him, and there’s a distinct vulnerability ringing through it.

Swallowing, Merlin tears his eyes away, mustering the room once more. “It’s strange to be here. Though you clearly found a more competent servant. Didn’t I tell you not to get a bootlicker?” he tries to joke and internally winces at how flat it falls.

“There’s no better servant.” Arthur’s voice is suddenly sharp, and he seems startled by his own words. He sighs and rubs a hand over his face. “I don’t have a permanent manservant anymore,” he adds, his accompanying shrug more on the jerky side.

Merlin decides not to ask for now and follows when Arthur gestures for him to sit down.

“How has it been going here before the whole mess with Morgana?” Merlin asks when the silence starts to become oppressive. “How is it going with you and Gwen?”

He mostly asks for the sake of saying something, anything, but he would be lying if he claimed to not be curious. No matter how badly he might wish for things to be different, he wants to see both of them happy, and he’s been wondering in the back of his mind ever since Gwen mentioned that Arthur had drawn away from everyone.

There’s a beat during which Arthur freezes, a frown etching itself between his brows, and then he continues distributing food on both their plates. Merlin absently notes that all his favourites are here.

“We broke off our courtship a while ago,” Arthur finally says, and if Merlin didn’t know him so well, it would come across as casual.

As it is, he can do nothing but stare in disbelief for several moments. “What happened?” he finally presses out, his fingers clenching around the goblet of water.

Arthur meets his eyes, and for all that he expects to find heartbreak written all over his expression, there’s mostly wistfulness.

“It was a mutual decision—well, mostly. I think we were good for each other for a while but in the end, we both wanted—we were not meant to last.” It’s said with such a calm acceptance that Merlin can’t find the words to voice any of the questions springing up in his mind.

“If you were keeping watch on us,” Arthur starts, his head tilted slightly as he watches him. “I mean—didn’t you know?”

Merlin sighs, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth and contemplating how to answer. “It’s a bit—well. To be honest, I mostly kept an eye on all the people who I know meant you harm, and on Camelot in general. Council meetings, sometimes, but not on—“ he breaks off, the words getting stuck in his throat. “I barely looked into any of your personal lives,” he finally settles on, eyes fixed firmly on the table in front of him.

He can see Arthur nod out of the corner of his eye, and thankfully, he doesn’t ask any more questions; Merlin doesn’t think he would be able to tell him yet that he simply couldn’t bear to see him.

This time, the silence doesn’t last long. He’s barely taken his first bite of food when Arthur clears his throat again, his plate still untouched and fingers tapping a restless rhythm against the worn wood of the table. “Will you stay?” he finally blurts out, eyes flicking to Merlin before he stares down again.

The question is no surprise, but it is the one he’s dreaded the most. A part of him wants to say yes; wants to give Arthur everything he could possibly ask for, to return to his friends and pretend that the last year has never happened.

But there’s also Aithusa; there’s a place where he’s safe and can be himself, where he doesn’t have to hide his magic. There’s Mordred, and an understanding of his responsibilities that goes beyond his devotion to one person, and one person alone. There’s a vow he’s made to himself about a year ago to not hide any longer.

“I can’t,” he says, and his chest _aches_ at the way Arthur’s face falls. “It’s not—I’m not saying that I’ll never come to visit but I can't—“ he breaks off, gesturing helplessly, and wishing that he could explain this in a way that wouldn’t make it worse.

Arthur’s staring at him, but even through the obvious hurt, there’s a gleam of sad understanding in his eyes that makes Merlin’s heart pound against his ribs.

“I’m going to lift the ban,” Arthur says, and just like that, Merlin’s whole world is tilting. Blood is rushing in his ears, his fingers are digging painfully hard into the table, and he absently thinks that he should probably continue breathing.

“Arthur—“ he chokes out, not even knowing what he means to say.

Warm fingers circle around his wrist, and the contact grounds him more than it has any right to. His eyes snap up to meet Arthur’s on their own accord, and the warmth he finds there robs him of his last remaining breath.

“I’ve been planning to do it for a while now,” Arthur goes on, somehow understanding that Merlin won’t get a word out anytime soon. “I’ve talked to Gaius a lot, and I knew—after you—I knew it was the only right thing to do. I only hesitated because I’m worried about Morgana. But with what happened it's—if I lift the ban, will you return?”

The plea is obvious even through Merlin’s shock.

Something must’ve shown on his face because Arthur’s grip on his wrist tightens, and he shakes his head. “It’s not conditional—I’m going to lift the ban no matter what. But if you can— _when_ you don’t have to hide any longer, will you consider coming home?”

Merlin twists his hand to interlace his fingers with Arthur’s, and he’s barely able to see through the tears burning in his eyes, but it doesn’t matter. What he _can_ see is the soft smile on Arthur’s face, the hope in his eyes, and he knows with a certainty that has been absent for more than a year that this is _right_ , how it should be. That despite everything, somehow, miraculously, things are turning out to be alright.

“Yes,” he whispers, a wet laugh breaking out of his throat. “Yes, when the ban is lifted, I will come home. I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What? A chapter ending on a happy note for once? Can't believe it either. I hope you liked it though ❤️


	11. this is me trying (maybe I don't quite know what to say)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much, the continued feedback to this makes me ridiculously happy. ❤️
> 
> This is the longest chapter. I tried to shorten it but alas, the boys are stubborn and talk too much, and it just had to all happen from Arthur's pov. Title is once again from [Taylor Swift - this is me trying](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9bdLTPNrlEg)

Arthur can’t seem to stop watching Merlin. It’s becoming obvious, he knows, and it’s also how he had ended up storming into Gaius’ chambers at sunrise after a night without sleep. But there’s an unrest seizing his chest whenever he loses sight of Merlin that is stronger than any fear of what Merlin or anyone else might think.

They’ve long since abandoned all pretence of breakfast after Arthur’s announcement. It took a while for Merlin to gather himself, but then he was quick to start asking questions. Arthur’s trying his best to answer, but if he’s honest, he has trouble staying focused, the importance of the topic fading in comparison to having Merlin _here_.

There’s something different about Merlin beyond his appearance. It’s in the way he’s holding himself a little straighter, how he seems to choose his words more deliberately despite his excitement, and how his eyes appear a bit sharper than Arthur remembers them.

He’s not sure yet what to make of it. He’s not even sure if he has really processed anything that happened over the last few days at all, and maybe that also explains why a part of him is still terrified of waking up and finding that it was all merely a particularly cruel dream.

That Merlin will leave and not come back regardless of his promise, that Arthur might lose him all over again and not even know where he should start searching. Not because he suspects that Merlin’s lying, not really; but Merlin would have every right to leave, and when it comes right down to it, Arthur is ridiculously selfish by asking him not to.

“Where are you staying?” he asks when Merlin stops talking about potentially useful regulations to include in the new laws, and he should be paying more attention to it, but he also feels like he’s going to choke if he doesn’t _know_.

Merlin stiffens and his eyes become more guarded. It’s only a minuscule change but Arthur is watching him, and the realisation is like a mace to his chest. “You don’t trust me enough to tell me.” It’s out before he can stop himself, his voice hoarse and revealing in a way his father would sneer at.

Merlin runs a hand through his hair with a deep sigh. “I—it’s not that I don’t trust you but—“ he starts, only to sigh again and slump in his chair. “It’s a sanctuary for magic users from all over Albion. And I know that you’d never attack them, that you’re always true to your word—believe me, I know,” he says, and his eyes are so intent and pleading that Arthur can’t help but nod.

“But it’s not only about me,” Merlin goes on, his lips turning down at the right corner while his hands are fiddling with the sleeves of his tunic. It’s strangely comforting, to see the familiar habit. “It’s about all these people, _my_ people, and I can’t just decide for them, even if they see me as—“

“As the greatest warlock to ever walk the earth,” Arthur finishes when he doesn’t go on, and he smirks tiredly at Merlin’s exasperated huff. “I understand though,” he adds, turning more serious.

He doesn’t elaborate, but Merlin’s small smile is telling him that he hears what Arthur isn’t saying. “Just how much exactly did Gaius tell you?”

Arthur hesitates, trying to gauge Merlin’s reaction. Nearly everything Merlin revealed since his involuntary return has been in a burst of anger or neatly calculated, and Arthur wants to avoid scaring him off at all costs.

There’s no tension to Merlin’s posture though, only a mixture of curiosity and resignation, and Arthur finds himself relaxing in return. “Well, regarding this—I think I’ve heard a lot about coins and halves, and some great destiny of ours to unite Albion and bring back magic to the land. Can’t do anything by halves, can you?” he says with a grin, adding a shrug for good measure.

Merlin laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and gods, Arthur missed this smile; can barely breathe with the urge to reach out and trace it with his fingers in an attempt to commit it to memory more firmly, just in case he'll ever have to go without it again.

“If you’re already bothered by this, you should never talk to Kilgharrah,” Merlin says, shaking his head. “Though that’d probably be better anyway, your ego is already big enough as it is.”

“I’m not the one they call _the greatest warlock to ever walk the earth_ , _Mer_ lin,” he shoots back, and his heart jumps in his chest at the familiarity of the teasing.

Merlin seems to think along the same lines because for long moments, they just smile at each other, and when Merlin speaks again, his voice is so much softer. “No, but they call you the Once and Future King—the greatest King this land will ever know.”

The air in the room seems to thicken and Arthur swallows. “Looks like we have our work cut out for us, huh?” he tries to joke, but it comes out more choked than anything else.

Merlin gives a short, wet laugh and shakes his head, his eyes settling on the window behind Arthur. “I’m—it’s so very strange to talk about this with you,” he murmurs, then suddenly blanches, his gaze snapping back to Arthur. “Gods, did Gaius tell you about Kilgharrah? Of course, you’d know by now but—“ He gestures broadly, worry suddenly back in his expression, and Arthur couldn’t stop himself from reaching out to grab his wrist if he wanted to.

“Merlin, it’s fine. I mean—obviously, I’m not particularly happy about the whole thing, but Gaius explained why you had to do it. I also know about your father, and I’m sorry. Both for your loss and how I reacted,” he says, and a bit of the weight lifts from his chest with the words.

There’s a beat of silence where Merlin only stares at him, and Arthur has to look away from the tears swimming in his eyes. He leaves his hand where it is though, the warmth of Merlin’s skin against his fingertips reassuring.

“Thank you,” Merlin says quietly, turning his hand to wrap his fingers around Arthur’s wrist in return. “And I’m sorry too.”

“Don’t—“

“No, I have to. There are a lot of things I won’t apologise for, but this is something that is still bothering me, and I am sorry. It never should’ve happened like that,” Merlin says, and when Arthur looks at him, the regret is written all over his face.

He sighs and squeezes Merlin’s wrist. “It’s not as if my father didn’t have it coming,” he says, and he’s surprised at his own words.

Merlin tilts his head, watching him as if trying to figure something out. “What else did Gaius tell you?”

Arthur laughs, a short, humourless sound that’s somehow still fond. “I’m—honestly, I don’t know if I can recall it all. We spent a lot of time talking once I got over… _Not_ wanting to talk about it,” he admits, averting his eyes again at the admission. “I dreamt some things too, but I never really told him much about it. He suspected that it was my subconsciousness, and I didn’t want to worry him more.”

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says again, a frown etching itself between his brows. “I’ll figure something out to stop—however that is happening. But—I want to…” He hesitates, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth, and Arthur is momentarily distracted by the motion.

“I want you to know,” Merlin finally says, his eyes searching Arthur’s face. “I—if we’re doing this, I don’t want there to be any more secrets, and you have a right to know these things. There are some…”

As Merlin trails off again, Arthur finally gets what it is he’s probably thinking about, and his heart twinges at the obvious worry. Perhaps they’re going to be alright after all.

“You’re thinking about my father,” he says, smiling weakly when Merlin’s head flies up. “And about my birth.”

His fingers tighten instinctively when Merlin tries to pull away. “I’m not going to claim that I wasn’t angry—still am, to some degree. But I also know why you did it, what you gave up by doing it, and it’s obvious that Morgause didn’t do any of it out of the goodness of her heart. In the end, it still comes down to my father—what he did, and how he lied to my face when I asked him.”

Another mirthless laugh breaks out of him and he shakes his head. “Or well, lying is the wrong word, I suppose. He never outright vowed that you were telling the truth, but I guess it doesn’t matter anymore.”

“I’m so sorry,” Merlin breathes, and Arthur didn’t know how much he needed to hear this until now. “I—I’m glad that Gaius told you though, I didn’t think he would.”

“I kind of put it together myself, and Gaius only confirmed it when I asked, considering he thought you were—“ he breaks off, biting his tongue, but Merlin still flinches slightly.

“I’m sorry too,” he adds because it has to be said, and also because he doesn’t want to linger on the topic of his father for too long. “For all the things I said about magic, for how I treated you. That you were forced into a position where you had to make these kinds of decisions in the first place.”

Merlin’s silent, his eyes fixed on where they’re still clutching each other’s wrists, but Arthur can see his jaw work, can feel his pulse race underneath his fingertips. There’s a rawness to this that leaves him feeling exposed, and still, he doesn’t want to contemplate letting go.

Finally, Merlin meets his eyes again, and there’s a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth that has a much stronger effect on Arthur than he would ever admit.

“So many apologies and it’s only midday. If we keep going on like this, we’ll never get anything done,” Merlin jokes after the silence stretched for a little too long.

Arthur snorts and rolls his eyes, glad to return to more familiar ground. They’ve somehow moved closer, only the corner of the table still between them, and his head feels slightly fuzzy. “You were never any good at getting work done,” he counters, smirking when Merlin huffs in feigned indignation. “I bet half my savings that it’s only got worse when you were able to use your magic for everything.”

Briefly, Merlin stills, only long enough for Arthur to wonder if he’s finally gone too far. Then Merlin grins, bright and brilliant, and the next second, a pillow whacks Arthur over the head while Merlin only smirks at him.

“I can still throw you in the stocks, you know,” he tries to threaten, but even he can tell that all he achieves is unmistakable fondness.

Merlin doesn’t even deign it with an answer, though he suddenly frowns and tilts his head in the direction of the door.

“Are you—“ Arthur breaks off when Merlin holds up a hand to stop him, then rolls his eyes.

“Mordred is worrying, is all,” he eventually says, shaking his head. “I swear, between him and Gwaine, I don’t know who has less trust in me to look after myself.”

There’s a sharp pang in Arthur’s chest at the mention of Gwaine, but he pushes it down in favour of raising his brows. “They obviously know you well. I’m curious how you can tell though, seeing that I gave them chambers in the East Wing.”

Merlin grins again and taps his temple. “Mental communication, it’s something the more powerful magic users can do. I’m actually thinking that this weird dream-connection we seem to have must be running along the same lines, just—different. It shouldn’t work over large distances, and not only when we’re asleep, but the basic principle is probably more or less the same. There’s a—“

He must’ve caught the nonplussed look that Arthur just knows he’s sporting because his expression morphs into a sheepish grin. “Sorry, I’ll explain it once I’ve figured it out.”

Arthur swallows the words that have sprung to mind at the enthusiastic way Merlin talked, all of them way too sappy to ever see the light of day.

Still, the mention of Mordred and Gwaine serves as a harsh reminder that there’s a world existing behind his doors, and he finally pulls his hand back, clearing his throat. “Do you have a plan for when you’re going to leave, and when you’re going to visit? I could use some of your help with drawing up the new laws.”

It comes out way too formal, and if the deepening crease between Merlin’s brows is anything to go by, he noticed. His eyes roam over Arthur’s face but eventually, he just nods. “I’m going to leave tonight, I need to check on Aithusa and some other things. I can visit every other day though, my magic is mostly back to full strength and that way, I’ll be able to stay in contact with the others. It’ll be good to get their input as well to ease the process and start building trust.”

“Do you think it would be good to invite some of them, delegations from the Druids maybe?” Arthur asks, ignoring the sinking feeling in his stomach in favour of focusing on this; the faster they’re getting this done, the sooner Merlin will return.

Merlin smiles but shakes his head. “I don’t think they’d trust Camelot enough for it yet. Not to mention that it’ll be difficult enough for you to deal with the council, with me suddenly back in the picture.”

“They can all get lost,” he snaps before he can stop himself. “Of course, it would be easiest if we can tell them that you survived instead of being—“ he breaks off, the word _immortal_ dying on his tongue. He has avoided thinking about it as much as possible, and even though he was only partly successful, he has no idea how to deal with the topic.

“Yeah, no, that’s perfect,” Merlin says, a grimace flashing over his face that he seems to wipe away quickly. “But yes, I think it’s better if it’s only me for a start—and Mordred, probably. The goddess knows that the kid never does as he’s told anyway.”

Obviously, Merlin isn’t any more inclined to talk about this than Arthur is. It should relieve him, but it just makes concern curl through his chest.

Deciding to come back to this at a different time, he simply nods. “You’re probably right, though they won’t have much room to argue after Camelot was saved only by the use of magic. Again. I know that I’m not aware yet of everything you’ve done, but I’m pretty sure that the list alone undermines any argument against the legalisation.”

“They might also decide that it proves my guilt—“

“No,” Arthur interrupts, and he knows he’s scowling, knows there must be anger clear on his face, but he doesn’t care. “I’m the King, and I swear to you that nobody will try to lay a hand on you, or they will find themselves on an extended stay in the dungeons. At best.”

“Arthur—“

“Obviously, you don’t have to reveal anything you don’t want to, we’re going to get this done either way. But before you leave this room, I’m going to write you a royal pardon, and that’s that. All this shit has to be good for _something_ , after all,” he finishes, and the stumped expression on Merlin’s face alone would’ve made this worth it a hundred times.

After a few seconds, Merlin smiles fondly, his eyes bright. “I’m never going to let you live down that this is one of the few occasions where you actually swore, you know that, right?”

“Yes, yes, and I’ll never forget that you occasionally run around as an eighty-year-old,” Arthur shoots back, probably grinning like a fool.

Merlin snorts and shakes his head before getting up from his chair. “Come on, you still look like you’ve just got out of bed. You can’t meet Aithusa and Kilgharrah like that.” 

“Wait, I can’t—“ Arthur starts, spluttering as Merlin pulls him out of the chair and into the direction of the changing screen. “You can’t be serious.”

Ignoring his protests, Merlin takes clothes out of the wardrobe and lies them out on the bed. It at least gives Arthur a few seconds to get his bearings back, and when Merlin steps up to him with a white tunic in his hand, he grabs his wrist.

“Merlin,” he says, quiet but insistent. “This is not your job anymore.”

It finally gets Merlin to look at him again, and Arthur nearly regrets his words at the frown that’s taking over his face.

“You said that you don’t have a manservant,” Merlin states, and even though it’s merely a statement, Arthur still hears the question underneath.

He definitely doesn’t want to get into the various reasons for that though.

“Well, turns out that I am indeed capable of dressing myself,” he says instead, taking the tunic from Merlin. When it doesn’t have the intended effect of getting a smile out of him, Arthur sighs. “It’s not that I mind you doing this, but—your place is next to me. Not as my manservant but as my equal.”

Finally, the frown melts into something softer, and Arthur spares a brief second to wonder just how revealing that was after all. Still, there’s something urging him on, telling him this is important, and he pushes past the insecurity that’s trying to strangle the next words.

“I was thinking more along the lines of Court Sorcerer.”

“You—“ Merlin starts, his eyes growing wide as he goes unnaturally still. “Are you serious?” he asks after another beat, and there’s a mixture of disbelief and awe ringing through his words that makes Arthur smile.

He shrugs, feigning indifference. “Well, I’ve been told that you’re probably the most competent person for the job. And most likely also the only one who’s willing to even consider it. So, would you?” he asks, and the end of that question still comes out more uncertain than he wants it to.

Merlin’s still staring, too many emotions flashing through his eyes for Arthur to decipher. “I— _of course_ I would,” he finally says, shaking his head. “I’m—I just would’ve never thought that you—“ he trails off again, averting his eyes, and the words he doesn’t voice make Arthur’s stomach churn with regret.

“I don’t trust anyone else more than you,” he forces himself to say, and the shine of wonder in Merlin’s eyes is worth the discomfort a thousand times.

He’s not prepared for it when Merlin takes a sudden step forward, throwing his arms around Arthur’s neck and pulling him close. Warmth rushes through him and his throat closes up, but just as Merlin’s about to pull away again, he finally gets his arms to comply, wrapping them tightly around Merlin’s waist.

The smell of herbs and rain assaults him, and he can do nothing but bury his face in Merlin’s neck, breathing in, focusing on the feeling of his warm body pressed against him. Can do nothing but clench his teeth against the sob that wants to rise in his throat.

“I’ve missed you,” Merlin murmurs into his hair, quiet and hoarse. “You’re an utter clotpole, but by the goddess, I missed you.”

There’s a sound tearing itself out of Arthur that’s half a laugh and half the dreaded sob, and he tightens his grip on Merlin. “I missed you too, you complete idiot.”

Arthur doesn’t want to let go, wants to stay like this for however long it takes to convince himself that he won’t lose it again, but Merlin does pull away eventually. He rubs a sleeve over his eyes and offers Arthur a shaky smile before straightening up.

“I wasn’t kidding when I said that you need to get dressed, you know,” he tries, and Arthur’s thankful for the attempt to steer them back to their usual banter.

“I do hope that you were kidding about me meeting your dragons though,” he shoots back, grabbing the clothes and disappearing behind the changing screen. Out of sight, he leans his forehead against the cool stone wall and breathes deeply until he has at least something akin to a grip on himself.

He can hear Merlin moving around the room, and it’s like he has never been gone and completely different all at the same time. It makes Arthur’s head spin.

“Obviously you don’t have to, but I think you’d like Aithusa at least. And Kilgharrah is not so bad, once you get beyond the whole talking-in-riddles thing.”

Arthur would like to argue that the attack on Camelot might also be an obstacle, but he wisely doesn’t point it out. Deep underneath the relief and the slowly growing hope that they’re going to be alright, there’s still the lingering fear of messing things up. That Merlin will eventually come to see that Arthur really isn’t worth all the trouble and that he’ll be better off leaving Camelot and all the shit he’s had to deal with here far behind himself.

Sighing to himself, he rakes a hand through his hair after pulling on the tunic and says, “Alright, I’ll meet your dragons. I make no promises about building friendships though.”

* * *

Arthur’s still not sure that he won’t come to regret that decision when he finds himself on the way into the forest a few hours later. Merlin’s walking next to him, his raven perched on his shoulder, and Mordred and Gwaine are bickering among themselves about who’s responsible for Aithusa’s apparent habit of chewing up Gwaine’s clothes.

“Oh stop it,” Merlin finally interrupts, though there’s a smile curling his lips that’s doing _things_ to Arthur’s heart. “She’s not that bad, Gwaine’s just a very convenient target.”

Gwaine’s indignant answer is drowned out by Mordred’s laughter.

Arthur watches it all with a weird mix of fondness and wistfulness. It’s obvious how the three of them are attuned to each other, good-natured teasing painfully reminiscent of something that Arthur hasn’t even known he was missing over the last year.

Or well, he did know, but he’s done his best to push it away, to not let anyone quite close enough. Not that anyone but Merlin ever really dared to tease him in the first place.

Thankfully, he’s stopped from going down that particular path when they arrive at a clearing and Merlin gestures for them to stay in the tree line.

Arthur watches in fascination as he tips his head back and sounds start spilling from his throat that no normal human should be able to produce. The very earth seems to shake with it, the air vibrating with a power he can’t name but that’s sending shivers down his spine, and he doesn’t even have it within himself to be annoyed when Gwaine sends him a knowing grin.

It doesn’t take long until the flapping sound of wings becomes audible over the familiar noises of the forest, and the white dragon starts standing out against the darkening sky.

Despite knowing that Merlin wouldn’t have brought him along if there was any danger to him, he still takes an instinctive step back when the great dragon lands, memories of the destruction it wrought on Camelot not yet faded.

He doesn’t pay Arthur any attention though, bowing his head to Merlin instead. Arthur doubts he’ll ever get used to seeing a beast this majestic and dangerous pay such respect to his former manservant—or anyone, really.

“Young warlock, I am glad to see you’re well,” Kilgharrah rumbles, the voice as deep and intense as Arthur remembers it from the brief encounter a few days ago.

Merlin steps forward, leaning his forehead against Kilgharrah’s snout and murmuring something too quiet for Arthur to understand. The scene doesn’t last long though, a chirping sound breaking the silence as something white barrels into Merlin’s side.

He goes down instantly, but his laughter is ringing through the clearing as he tries to shove the small dragon off his chest. “Alright, alright, I’m sorry sweetheart, okay? I’m sorry,” he finally gets out, somehow managing to move back into a sitting position and wrapping his arms around the dog-sized creature.

“She felt when you were injured,” Kilgharrah says, and Merlin’s answering flinch is visible even over the distance.

“You knew though, didn’t you?” Merlin says, and there’s a resigned note of exasperation to his tone that Arthur doesn’t understand.

Kilgharrah bows his head and exhales a huff that ruffles the hair on Merlin’s head. “As usual, I was only aware of the potential outcome—that it was likely you would be revealed. I did not know how it would happen, or that the witch would hurt you.”

At the mention of Morgana, his voice drops further, and Arthur’s surprised at the obvious contempt. Next to him, Mordred flinches ever so slightly, and Arthur looks at him quizzically.

Mordred grimaces and sighs. “He doesn’t like me very much either,” he explains, and Arthur decides that he doesn’t want to know.

“I see that you’ve brought your young king,” Kilgharrah’s just saying, and Arthur tenses despite his best intentions. Still, he draws back his shoulders and steps forward, refusing to show the fear that, as far as he’s concerned, is mere self-preservation.

Merlin glances between the two of them and rolls his eyes, then bows his head to whisper something into Aithusa’s ear. She chirps excitedly, her head flying around to stare at Arthur, and a second later he’s lying flat on his back while she’s nuzzling his cheek.

Gwaine’s roaring with laughter in the background, and Arthur knows that his attempt at a glare is terribly weak when Merlin appears in his line of sight with a grin nearly splitting his face.

“Come on Aithusa, give him some room to breathe,” he admonishes fondly, tapping her on the head. She instantly complies, though only far enough for Arthur to sit up.

Rolling his eyes, he shakes his head at Merlin. “As if it wasn’t you who put her up to it.”

Merlin only smiles sweetly and offers him a hand to get up.

“I take it that your reunion went well?” Kilgharrah rumbles, and Arthur would call the inflexion of his voice amusement if he wasn’t still refusing to attribute human expressions to dragons.

Next to him, Merlin huffs. “Depends on your definition of well, I suppose. There was some shouting involved, and not everyone was particularly—happy,” he says, voice turning quiet toward the end.

“—Lin,” Aithusa chirps, butting her head into Merlin’s stomach while her tail wraps around Arthur’s ankle, and he watches in amazement as Merlin’s expression immediately relaxes again.

“It’s alright sweetheart, everything’s going to be alright,” Merlin murmurs, and Arthur wants to take him and wrap him into another hug; wants to promise him his kingdom and the world if it means that Merlin won’t ever be unhappy again.

When he looks away from the two of them, he finds Kilgharrah watching him. His spine instantly stiffens, but the dragon merely tilts his head. “The prophecies are shifting again. Am I correct to assume that you’ve come to a decision, young king?”

There’s a snort coming from behind them that’s undoubtedly Gwaine’s doing, and Merlin sighs.

“Yes,” Arthur answers before Merlin can say anything. “Though if you’re talking about the plan to lift the ban on magic, it’s not a recent development. I simply decided to speed up the process.”

“And it will most likely save your life,” Kilgharrah answers with a calm that doesn’t fit the assertion. “Your life, and the fate of Albion.”

“You did not tell me about this,” Merlin says quietly before Arthur can even begin to wrap his head around it, and there’s simmering anger to Merlin’s voice now that he hasn’t heard before.

Kilgharrah seems unperturbed though. “If you care to recall, young warlock, I did indeed give you several warnings about potential threats to the young Pendragon’s life. You simply chose not to heed them and as it seems, you might’ve been right after all. Though I do wish that you had been spared the personal prize you’ve had to pay for these changes.”

And yeah, Arthur definitely sees what Merlin meant with the ‘ _talking-in-riddles-thing_.’ He’s still trying to make sense of the words because he can’t for the life of him picture Merlin dismissing a threat to his life when—

“You’re right, I’m sorry,” Merlin says, and he suddenly sounds so very tired that Arthur could mistake him for being eighty again.

Still, his head whips around and he stares at Merlin in disbelief. “What do you _mean_ he’s right?”

Merlin groans, rubbing a hand over his face and glaring at Kilgharrah. “It’s complicated but—I was warned about Morgana long before she turned her back on us. I nearly killed her too, but I just—I _couldn’t_ , even after she had already betrayed Camelot more than once.”

He pauses, his gaze flicking to the tree line briefly before he meets Arthur’s eyes again. “The other warning was about a child, and I nearly killed them as well. But you can’t honestly expect me to kill a child for something they _might_ do in the future? Or obviously not, as we’ve just learnt?”

The words seem to ring in Arthur’s ears and the understanding of how far Merlin has been willing to go for him fills him with shame at ever doubting him in the first place. “I’m sorry,” he presses out, his hands clenching at his sides. “I’m sorry that you ever had to make these decisions in the first place, that you had to deal with it on your own.”

There’s a beat of silence where Merlin looks like he might protest. In the end, he merely gives a slow nod, but there’s relief shining in his eyes.

“For what it’s worth,” Kilgharrah starts, and Arthur jumps at the reminder that they’re not alone. “Word of the renewed change in the prophecy will slowly but surely spread through the magical community, as will the news about Camelot’s change in policies. It’ll lessen the attacks of a magical nature in the long run.”

“It’s mostly Morgana these days, and I doubt the lift of the ban will placate her,” Merlin says dryly, shaking his head, and Arthur is inclined to agree.

Kilgharrah bows his head in acknowledgement and his voice somehow turns more serious. “You must be aware that the news of your sudden return will reach her sooner or later, and she won’t have much trouble to put the pieces together.”

Merlin grimaces, his posture shifting as he seems to contemplate the warning. Arthur’s not sure if he knows what this is about but decides to ask about it later.

Eventually, Merlin gives a sharp nod, straightening up. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not going to keep hiding and having Emrys at Camelot’s court in official capacity will bring more advantages than risks. She’ll have even more trouble than she already has to gather support from other sorcerers, especially as I plan to stay in close contact with the Druids and the others back home while we’re negotiating the new laws.”

 _Negotiate_. Somehow, Arthur hasn’t thought of it as a matter of diplomacy, though he supposes that it makes sense. He’s also never considered how lifting the ban would weaken Morgana’s stance—an oversight if he ever saw one.

“Stop thinking so much,” Merlin murmurs, bumping their shoulders together, and his eyes are way too knowing when Arthur looks at him. He smiles in spite of himself, warmth spreading through his chest.

It disappears just as quickly when Merlin turns back to Kilgharrah and says, “Could you take me back? I need to sort some things out at home and will only return every other day until the laws are passed.”

Arthur knew it was coming, but his stomach still sinks.

“Of course, young warlock. Am I to assume that your knight and your Druid are to accompany us?”

There’s a certain sting in the realization that ‘ _your knight_ ’ clearly means Gwaine, and Arthur exhales a measured breath to keep it off his face.

To his surprise, Merlin shakes his head. “Gwaine’s going to stay here,” he says, sending a glance over his shoulder. “What about you, Mordred?”

Arthur wonders about their silence throughout the whole interaction and why Gwaine isn’t going back with them. Saying that he’s disappointed would be a massive lie though.

“I’m coming with you, but I think I’ll use the transportation spell,” Mordred says, not bothering to conceal his wariness when he glances at Kilgharrah. “No offence, of course.”

Kilgharrah doesn’t deign it with an answer, and Merlin merely rolls his eyes. The exasperation vanishes without a trace when he looks at Arthur though, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I’ll see you the day after tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Arthur answers hoarsely, nails digging into his palms as he forces a smile. If Merlin notices, he doesn’t let it show.

After a beat of hesitation, Merlin gives a quick nod, then turns on his heel and climbs on Kilgharrah’s back in what appear to be well-practised movements.

Arthur retreats back to where Gwaine’s still leaning against a tree, and he watches as the dragon spreads its wings, a blast of wind sweeping through the clearing as it takes off. He barely notices the flash from Mordred’s spell through the tightness in his chest at watching Merlin’s quickly disappearing form.

It’s only when Gwaine nudges his shoulder that he shakes himself out of it, though the weight in his stomach doesn’t lessen.

He must be doing a poor job at hiding it because after they’ve walked in silence for a while, Gwaine says, “He’ll be back. You know that he always keeps his promises.”

“I know,” Arthur snaps, then takes a deep breath in a feeble attempt to centre himself. “Sorry, I just—“ he breaks off again, unwilling to tell the truth but not wanting to lie either.

“I understand,” Gwaine says quietly, and there’s a strangely solemn expression on his face when Arthur glances at him. “When I found him, he was… So very unlike how I remembered him. We fought a lot, and I kept waiting for him to disappear on me. Sometimes I still think that the only reasons he didn’t were Mordred and the place we stayed at.”

It’s more reassuring than Arthur cares to admit; not only that Merlin’s distance isn’t something solely reserved for him, but that there’s someone who at least partly understands.

“I’m sorry,” he says, surprised at how much he means it.

Gwaine smiles, but it’s a quiet, wistful thing, unlike his usual exuberant grins. “I’m sorry too. For leaving as I did, and for the stuff I said. I regretted it within weeks to be honest, but I was too proud to return.”

“None of us was really at our best,” Arthur says, shaking his head. “But still, thank you.”

“You can say that again,” Gwaine mutters, seemingly more to himself. Then, more clearly and with something closer to the grin that Arthur’s come to expect from him, “He has that effect on people, doesn’t he?”

Arthur only nods in agreement, but there’s a question burning on the tip of his tongue that’s getting more insistent for the longer they’re walking in silence. “So, are you and Merlin…?” he eventually gives in, regretting it the second he does and still anticipating the answer.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Gwaine stiffen, and his expression twists briefly. “I—no, not really. We had—something, I guess. It was never anything serious, and not since—not for a while.”

It’s more than obvious that Gwaine doesn’t want to talk about it, that he’s unhappy with whatever has taken place between the two of them, and Arthur doesn’t have it within himself to feel resentment at the jealousy burning in his throat.

“I’m sorry,” he says for what has to be the millionth time today, but Gwaine just waves him off. His smile is strained around the edges, but Arthur doesn’t say anything.

It’s not as if the answer is particularly surprising. Even before everything went to hell, it had always been obvious that Gwaine liked Merlin more than literally anyone else. Not to mention that Arthur never had a claim to Merlin, not now and not a year ago.

It doesn’t stop the sinking feeling in his gut, or the guilt taking root between his ribs at already being unhappy again when Merlin has only just returned.

* * *

After another night of restless sleep and confusing dreams that he’d rather not inspect too closely, Arthur’s more than happy to return to training.

The following council session on the other hand is a predictable nightmare. It’s only Leon at his side who keeps him from snapping after the first fifteen minutes of arguing—or rather shouting, and it’ll never not be astounding to Arthur how quickly some nobles can lose all decorum.

They’re decidedly not amused by anything that has gone down when Camelot was retaken. Even less so with Arthur’s continued absence in the following days, with Gwaine being back in his seat at the round table, or that Merlin hasn’t been arrested yet.

Initially, Arthur thought that leaving them to let off steam would only help his case in the long run. When the discussion becomes increasingly more ridiculous, with calls for patrols and search parties, followed by the suggestion from one of the older lords to hire another Witchfinder, Arthur’s patience runs out.

Not even Leon’s briefly steadying hand on his shoulder is of any help in the face of that.

“That’s enough,” he says, at least partly satisfied when it instantly shuts the heated discussions around the table up. “There won’t be any arrests, executions or, the goddess help me, Witchfinders. In case it has slipped your notice, I’ve not persecuted any sorcerers since becoming regent and it would do all of you some good to acknowledge that we’re all only sitting here due to the help of magic.”

Stunned silence follows his words, and he takes a deep breath. There’s a mixture of excitement and dread coiling in his chest, and he presses his thumb against his mother’s ring. He wishes Merlin would be here for this, though he’s also glad that he’s spared the vitriol that has been spouted over the past thirty minutes.

“In fact, I’ve decided that it’s time to lift the ban of magic in its current form.”

If there was silence a minute ago, there now seems to be no air left in the room.

Arthur lets his gaze wander around the table, carefully taking in whose expression is slowly forming into relief, and whose into anger.

He’s ridiculously grateful when Gwaine gives a sharp whistle and starts clapping. Lancelot follows, then the other knights of the original round table, and Arthur is going to buy all of them several rounds in the tavern when this is over.

Of course, it would be way too easy if this were the end of it.

“You can’t be serious,” Lord Clifford exclaims, an angry flush creeping over his cheeks.

Before Arthur can even contemplate addressing the blatant disrespect, someone else speaks up. “Obviously, the king must be enchanted!” which is followed by a murmur of agreement and wary glances thrown into his direction.

Arthur’s jaw clenches. “ _Enough_ ,” he snaps, voice just loud enough to be heard over the rising volume in the room. “Do I need to remind you that I am still your king? I can assure you that I am under no spell, though I’ll happily let our court physician placate any further worries.”

Those who voiced their displeasure shift in their seats and Arthur meets the eyes of each and every one of them. “Magic has saved our kingdom more often than any of you can contemplate. My father was a strong king, but he became blinded by his hatred and fear, and as a consequence, made more enemies than he prevented harm. There will be restrictions put into place and I will be open to suggestions as usual. But the ban _will_ be lifted, that is non-negotiable. Too much harm has come to innocents and I won’t continue the atrocities my father so easily committed.”

This time, there’s no protest, only low murmurs of “Yes, Your Majesty,” that aren’t fooling Arthur for a second. He knows that there will be a lot more arguing, that this won’t be done within a week, but it doesn’t matter. He would do it if only because it’s right—but he’d also do it for Merlin’s sake, and Merlin’s sake alone.

“While we’re on the topic,” he goes on when he’s certain that he won’t have to deal with an uprising within the next five minutes, “As many of you are aware, my former manservant has survived his wrongful execution. He has received a royal pardon and will act as a representative for the magical population of Camelot during the process. I’m sure that I don’t have to impress upon you that he is to be treated with the respect any delegation would expect.”

Many of the knights are quiet but clear in their approval, especially those who were there when they regained Camelot. Arthur’s immensely glad that Merlin can defend himself though because there’s also more than one lord looking like they’ve smelled something foul.

“Your Majesty, if you’d allow me the question?” Lord Dormer speaks up, and Arthur thinks that he really needs to replace some of his father’s old advisors.

Seeing that he can hardly kick them out right this second, he gives a nod in acknowledgement.

“I mean no disrespect, but are you certain that—well, a peasant with no actual education beyond being a servant is the right choice?” the man says, and Arthur’s lips twitch involuntarily at the low growl coming from Gwaine’s direction.

Arthur merely tilts his head. “That might be a valid concern on the first glance, Lord Dormer, but I can assure you that Merlin is more than qualified. Not only is he educated better than most peasants are, but I’d also remind you that he was the physician’s apprentice as well.”

“He’s also the king of the magic people,” Gwaine pipes up, apparently unable to help himself, and Arthur sighs. He doesn’t know what he expected when he allowed Gwaine back into the meetings, and he really only has himself to blame.

“That is a bit of an exaggeration,” he says, quickly raising a hand to stall Gwaine from protesting as he clearly means to. “Nonetheless, it is true that Merlin holds a highly revered position and will be accepted by most of his people as an advocate.”

Of course, some of the men on his council look only more uncomfortable with that revelation, but Arthur thinks that’s a worry for another time.

“Now, we still need to address the reparations necessary after Morgana’s attack. We will discuss anything related to the repeal of the ban tomorrow and get a start on the potential restrictions and laws,” he says, exhaling a breath of relief when nobody objects.

While Leon reports on the state of their food stores, Arthur allows himself a moment to just breathe. All things considered, it probably went as well as can be expected. He has no illusions about the discussions that are going to follow, the inevitable push and pull over every little detail, but it’s promising that the loudest protest came from his father’s old advisors while the knights seem to be firm in their support of him.

* * *

As expected, the following weeks are a constant flurry of hard negotiations, conducting the reparations of the lower town and the castle, and re-establishing training and patrol-schedules.

Arthur feels permanently stretched thin, and Merlin’s presence is as helpful as it is difficult to deal with.

They’re spending the majority of Merlin’s time in Camelot in the council chambers, and Arthur discovers quickly that watching Merlin argue his points in the face of agitated nobles, slipping in more underhanded insults than any of them can ever hope to pick up on, is more of a distraction than it has any right to.

Despite that, he’s incredibly glad that Merlin’s here for this. He’s not sure if the knowledge Merlin brings to the table is something he acquired during his year away from Camelot, but combined with his complete absence of fear over speaking up, its worth is immeasurable.

It’s barely been a month and already they have a solid outline for the new legislation. Initially, Arthur had assumed that they could simply expand the already existing laws to include the usage of magic—no murder, no torture, no fraud, and no theft—and add a few clauses for certain spells and enchantments that he learnt about from Gaius.

Merlin shot that down quickly though, instead proposing to prohibit certain sections altogether and only adding specific exceptions if they’re necessary.

As of now, the legislation includes the ban of Necromancy, mind magic that aims to deprive someone of their free will or would alter the victim’s perception in an attempt to manipulate them—including any and all love potions and enchantments, something that Arthur readily agreed with—impersonating someone else, as well as any and all bargains over life and death.

Of course, all of those are points that Gaius could’ve helped with as well, that the council didn’t have any objections to. Arthur thinks the general lack of knowledge about magical matters is the only thing keeping them from pushing for stricter laws.

The actual issue lies firmly on the other end of the bargain—the laws for the protection of magic users.

Merlin only brought it up after they were already two weeks into the negotiations, and Arthur has to compliment him—at least in the privacy of his own mind—for establishing himself as someone to be taken seriously first.

As far as he’s concerned, the demands are more than reasonable, and he already knows that he’ll refuse to budge on them—the legalisation and reinstatement of the holidays and non-violent rites of the Old Religion, a general prohibition to disturb the sacred sites, laws against subjugating magic users through force or threats to do one’s bidding, to dampen, restrict, or divest them of their magic, and a general prohibition of discrimination against magic users.

Additionally, Camelot is to offer reparations for the crimes done by Arthur’s father and himself in the form of farmland, housing, equipment, and monetary compensation for those who lost relatives in the Purge.

Merlin pointed out how it was unlikely that many would take the Crown up on the offer. Pride and wariness that will take time to undo are most likely going to prevent most sorcerers from making active bargains with Camelot, but still, a part of the council keeps pointing out the potential costs of such an offer.

It’s wearing on Arthur’s patience though, and it’s only Merlin’s own endurance in the face of it all that keeps him from simply enacting a royal decree and be done with it. He doesn’t even care that a majority of the expenses are going to be compensated by the additional taxes in the long run; it’s the only thing that is _right_ , and while it’ll put a strain on Camelot’s treasury, it would be manageable.

A silver lining if there ever was one is that it’s a great method to show him which advisors should be replaced rather sooner than later.

Deep down he knows though that what’s really wearing on him is seeing Merlin leave every evening after they spent hours next to each other without _spending time_ with each other. They barely catch a moment alone, and while he’d never resent Merlin his obvious need to keep some distance from Camelot for as long as things aren’t settled yet, it also feels like Arthur still has to miss him despite seeing him every other day.

It doesn’t help that Merlin seems to be alternating between soft smiles and happiness at seeing Arthur and careful reserve that’s colouring his interactions with everyone.

* * *

In the end, Arthur only has to put his foot down on the payment of reparations. He’s still not sure how Merlin eventually convinced the majority of the council of everything else, but after five weeks of negotiations, he wouldn’t complain even if there was magic involved.

The upside is that they’re finished just in time for the Summer Solstice. A week is a short time to organise a celebration, but Arthur agrees that the symbolism of officially repealing the ban on one of the most important holidays of the Old Religion will be worth it.

It was Mordred who suggested it in the first place, and Arthur’s still not sure what to make of the boy. He accompanied Merlin most days but never joined them in the council sessions, claiming that Merlin could tell him what was going on without him ‘ _having to spend the whole day in a room full of people who would’ve seen him executed a few weeks ago._ ’

Not that Arthur can blame him.

Instead, he spent his time with Gaius, apparently preparing to take over Merlin’s former position as the physician’s apprentice as soon as the ban is lifted.

* * *

The morning of the Summer Solstice, Arthur wakes at the break of dawn, phantom sensations of an already fading dream that he’s not sure was his own still lingering on his skin.

Before he can obsess too much over the question of what it would mean if Merlin had the same dreams about them that Arthur has, he throws the covers off and gets up.

Despite the early start of the festivities, Merlin insisted to stay the night back at wherever it is he’s staying. Arthur has already given him chambers in the North tower, the ones traditionally used by the Court Sorcerer before the purge. While Merlin started moving most of his belongings there, he stayed firm in his resolve to only move to Camelot for good after today.

Arthur doesn’t understand it, doesn’t want to think too much about the reasons behind it, but he’s mostly relieved that after today, he’ll actually know where Merlin lives.

It doesn’t help his nerves that he can’t find Merlin anywhere up until he has to leave for the throne room.

When Merlin nearly runs into him in front of the double doors, all his carefully crafted reprimands fly straight out of his head though. Merlin’s hair is mussed up and his cheeks are flushed, but the biggest distraction is definitely his clothes. He’s wearing a dark cloak that looks more expensive than anything Arthur has ever seen on him, with leather paddings at the shoulders and a red and gold dragon stitched on the sides.

Merlin follows his line of sight and smiles sheepishly. “It was the traditional garb of the Dragonlords. Finna gave it to me this morning, it’s why I’m so late.”

Arthur’s throat is still dry and he’s infinitely grateful when the doors are opened that exact moment, saving him from having to comment further.

The first part of today only takes place in front of the court and the knights. It’s the legal announcement of the repeal and the official appointment of Merlin as Court Sorcerer, and Arthur’s thankful for the formality of it all as it forces him to shove any _informal_ thoughts about Merlin far away.

He’s way more nervous about the speech that he’s going to hold later in the courtyard, with delegations of the Druids and other sorcerers present, but he tries to not think about that yet either.

The announcement goes well enough; everyone in the room was already aware of the change, and while decidedly not all of them are happy about it, there are enough bright faces among the crowd to make up for it.

Hunith and Gaius are standing together in one corner, leaning against each other as if neither of them can believe that this is really happening. His knights, including Gwaine, are making up the first row, and even Mordred is smiling faintly as Arthur finishes with, “From this moment forward, the practice of magic is no longer banned in the land of Camelot.”

As the applause is dying down, the doors are opened again and Merlin walks down the aisle, his head held high and shoulders straight. Arthur can make out the nervousness as he gets closer though, the subtle twitching of his hands and how his jaw is clenched. Somehow it manages to calm Arthur’s own racing heart.

Still, when Merlin kneels before him, his breath stutters briefly, his mind failing to comprehend how very sure he’s been that this would never happen, and how they’ve made it here against all odds.

Then Merlin smiles, small and soft as if saying, _yeah, me too_ , and the tight knot in Arthur’s chest loosens.

Clearing his throat, he draws his sword. “Merlin of Ealdor, son of Hunith and Balinor. Will you solemnly swear to advise the King and court of Camelot, and to protect its people according to the respective laws and customs?"

"I solemnly swear to do so,” Merlin answers, the faintest tremble in his voice while he keeps staring at Arthur.

"Will you, to the extent of your power, represent the values of Camelot and advocate for its subjects, those with and without magic?"

“I will.”

"Then by the sacred laws vested in me, I name you, Merlin, Court Sorcerer of Camelot," Arthur says, not taking his eyes off Merlin as he touches the sword to his shoulders.

There are no records left on the traditions for Court Sorcerers from before the purge, and even though Gaius has told them about what he remembers, Arthur adjusted the ceremony.

Originally, it had been a far less formal affair, a simple announcement to the court whenever there was a change in the position. Not only is this a far more monumental occasion after over twenty years of repression, but Arthur also revels in the opportunity to give Merlin some of the recognition he so deserves.

He offers Merlin a hand to get to his feet, and he forcefully has to tear his eyes away from him when he steps up next to Arthur, a faint flush creeping over his cheeks at the applause thundering through the hall.

With that part of the day done, Arthur’s nerves about the rest of the festivities are free to run rampage. It’s one thing to keep his court in order, all men with strong heads but ultimately adherent to the power he wields as their king.

The people are another matter altogether, and there’s a certain risk in inviting Druids and sorcerers into the heart of a kingdom that has spent two decades convincing its people that those with magic are to be feared and hated.

Merlin can assure him that it’s going to be alright a hundred times, and Arthur might even believe him because he’s always been hopeless when it came to Merlin, but he can also see that underneath it all, Merlin’s just as anxious as he is.

The idea came from the Druids though, and they both agreed that denying them would send the wrong signal. Instead, they’ve gone over security concepts with the knights countless times and Merlin set up a myriad of wards that Arthur has no hope of understanding.

They’re also putting their trust in Gaius and Gwen, who both said that the majority of the people is going to be more relieved about not having to fear wrongful accusations of themselves or their loved ones anymore. That many of them have already noticed Arthur’s slacker stance on the subject, and that sending a strong signal of acceptance would ultimately go a long way to reassure them.

Right now though, the only thing keeping Arthur from panicking is Gwen’s reminder that Merlin has always been beloved by most of Camelot’s citizens, and that his appointment is most likely going to help as well.

Merlin stays close to him as they’re walking out of the throne room. Gwaine and Mordred fall into step behind him as if they were his own knights—and after what Arthur’s observed over the last few weeks, that’s not too far off, even if all three of them like to pretend otherwise—and they’re joined by Leon and Lancelot on Arthur’s side.

They stop in front of the closed castle doors, and Arthur takes a steadying breath. “Ready?” he murmurs, glancing at Merlin who’s staring straight ahead.

At Arthur’s question, he closes his eyes and, for the fraction of a second, squeezes Arthur’s hand between them. “Ready.”

The doors open, sun spilling into the corridor. Their shoulders brush as they step outside, and Arthur’s heart is beating a steady rhythm that seems to whisper, _right, right, right,_ into his blood, wrapping around his bones and soothing away all remaining doubts.

The courtyard is packed with people, and while Arthur’s eyes need to adjust to the sudden light, he still sees many of them bowing to their knees.

It’s only when Merlin softly groans at his side, and he takes in their appearance more carefully, that he gets it—they’re not bowing to _him_.

He vows to take some of Gwaine’s proclamations more seriously in the future.

Merlin nudges his shoulder, and he takes another steadying breath.

“People of Camelot,” he says, and his voice echoes through the courtyard in a way that’s in no way natural. “Today marks the day on which we right the greatest wrong in Camelot’s recent history. For too long, an essential part of our people had to live in fear, had to live with prejudices and hatred projected at them, made responsible for the actions of a few.”

There’s a certain sting to opposing his father’s legacy so publicly, and he doesn’t think that it will ever not be there. But Merlin’s warmth is steady at his side, and he knows down to his very core that this is as inevitable as breathing.

“I know that there are no words that could ever erase the injustice and horrors done by my father, and also by myself. I can only offer my deepest regrets and apologies, and the promise that from this day on, magic is welcomed back into the heart of this kingdom. We can’t deny our past, but we can strive to create a better future for all of us.”

There’s a beat of silence during which Arthur’s blood is rushing in his ears, every muscle in his body tight with tension, and then the first people start clapping, the sound spreading through the crowd and joined by cheers.

Merlin chokes out a laugh, the sound a mixture of awe and disbelief, and when Arthur looks at him, his eyes are bright, shining with tears. He looks happier than Arthur can ever remember seeing him—as if the weight of the world has been lifted from his shoulders.

He traces the expression with his eyes, commits it to memory and tucks it away into his chest, his only regret that he’s waited so long to put it there.

Someone coughs lightly, startling both of them out of the strange bubble they were sinking into.

The noise in the courtyard has lessened, and when Merlin clears his throat, it’s somehow enough to draw the attention back to them. Taking a step forward, Merlin cups his hands, gold and red sparks forming in his palms and rising into the air.

Arthur watches in amazement as they form into two dragons—one a perfect replica of Camelot’s crest and the other a likeness of the one adorning Merlin’s cloak. They twist around each other, chasing and drawing spirals high into the sky where they explode into a shower of sparks, transforming into flowers as they rain down into the crowd.

A murmured, “Show off,” from behind them has Merlin bark out an unexpected laugh, which is closely followed by a yelp from Mordred that’s thankfully swallowed by the renewed cheers travelling through the people.

Arthur’s helpless against the grin that’s splitting his face, and he barely waits long enough for the noise to die down once more before he proclaims, “Let the festivities begin!”

The following hours seem to flash by in a blur. There’s an endless stream of people who want to talk to him—to thank him, to ask questions, to reassure themselves. There’s Merlin, a steady constant at his side while also introducing him to a myriad of people—Druids and Catha and sorcerers whose names he loses track off after the first hour.

Some of them still eye him with wariness, not that Arthur can blame them. Their respect for and trust in Merlin clearly outweighs their reservations though, and he’s just glad that he has Leon at his side to keep track of who will be coming to court in the foreseeable future for as many different reasons as there are people.

All things considered, it goes worlds better than they could’ve ever hoped for. Small magical shows are popping up at every corner, lights floating in the air as the people mingle after the initial wariness has passed. He doesn’t doubt that the food, ale, and wine provided do help the process along rather well, but he also knows that it could’ve all gone spectacularly wrong.

Through it all, the bright smile on Merlin’s face never dims once, and Arthur feels drunk with the happiness that’s radiating off of him. He’d do it all again in a heartbeat if only to keep that smile there, to see the relaxed lines of Merlin’s shoulders, to hear the easy laughter whenever one of their friends cracks a joke.

Still, he feels a bone-deep relief when Merlin eventually drags him away from everything and they end up on the battlements, the crowd a mere blur of lights and music and voices far beneath them.

Night has fallen a while ago but it’s still warm, the moon hanging low in the sky. Merlin’s discarded his cloak at some point, his sleeves pushed up, and there’s a content smile dimpling his cheeks as he leans against the parapet next to Arthur.

They don’t speak for a long time, the silence wrapping comfortably around them, and Arthur thinks he could stay here forever, like this. Watching over the kingdom they’ve built with Merlin pressed against his side.

Merlin traces his fingers over the white stone, and flowers appear in their wake. He cups his hands, and butterflies fly out of them, dancing across the small garden Merlin’s creating almost absently.

The gold of his eyes burns brilliantly, and Arthur watches transfixed, his throat tight and his fingers itching with the urge to reach out and map the joy on Merlin’s face. Twitch with the urge to bury his hands into the strands of his hair, to brush his lips over his brows and promise him that they will always be this happy.

“I’m glad to be back,” Merlin eventually says quietly, turning to face Arthur.

His stomach swoops, and he mirrors Merlin’s posture, exhaling a measured breath. “I’m glad too,” he says, just as softly, just as many unsaid things wrapped into the words.

Something shifts, the air becoming thicker, and Arthur’s heart races in his chest at how close they are. He’s nearly sure that Merlin must hear it, still looking at him with the corners of his eyes crinkled.

Arthur sways closer, one hand coming up to rest against Merlin’s shoulder on its own accord. He watches as Merlin swallows, his eyes fluttering briefly, leaning in.

“ _Arthur_ ,” he says, his voice suddenly hoarse, and Arthur always loved the way Merlin says his name; how he laces it with a thousand different meanings that Arthur could spend lifetimes on deciphering.

He lets his eyes roam over Merlin’s face, taking in the warmth in his eyes. Taking in the faint flush high on his cheekbones, the way Arthur can see his pulse racing in the hollow of his throat, and he thinks, _please_. Thinks, _don’t let me be wrong about this,_ and, _I know I’m asking for more than I deserve, but please, please let me have this as well._

There’s so little distance left between them that he can feel Merlin’s breath on his lips, can smell him—flowers and herbs and rain, always rain—and Merlin’s hand on his waist burns like a brand. Arthur’s eyes close and he leans forward until their lips brush together, just for the fraction of a second.

Just for the fraction of a second, and then there’s a firm hand on his chest pushing him back. It takes his hazy brain a moment to catch up with it, but when he finally blinks his eyes open, he finds Merlin’s face shuttered with something unreadable.

“I’m—I—“ Merlin stammers, takes a deep breath and a step back, and fixes his gaze somewhere to Arthur’s right. “I’m sorry, but I can’t,” he presses out. “I _can’t_.”

Before Arthur can even begin to comprehend what’s happening, Merlin’s rushing past him and disappears out of the door, the phantom sensation of his hand on Arthur’s waist and the flowers on the dead stone the only proof that he was here at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't let them be too happy, right? 😶
> 
> Seriously though, I'm .. sorry. I do hope you liked it still, and I promise they'll sort themselves out! ❤️


	12. my best-laid plan, your sleight of hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I'm so sorry for that cliffhanger. I think this one will make up for it though. ❤️
> 
> Chapter title is from [Taylor Swift - hoax](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nJt3xAQAnbs)

Merlin doesn’t know where he’s going until he finds himself on the empty training grounds. His chest feels too tight and his hands are shaking while his mind is an endless chant of ‘ _I can’t, I can’t, I can’t,’_ and the image of Arthur’s expression when he said it. 

The noises of the celebration are drifting towards him and he wants to laugh at the irony. Wants to scream and shout and rage at the festering ache in his chest and at the cruelty of it all.

He should be just as happy, should be the happiest of them all, and yet his fury is burning bright enough that he could face Morgana and end it here and now without a second of hesitation.

His magic is boiling underneath his skin, but there’s no strength left in his body. The castle wall is the only thing there to catch him as his legs give out, and he sinks down against it, curling in on himself.

There are hot tears rolling down his cheeks and he wants to laugh at that too. Wants to curse the Old Religion for giving him all this power and still making him so irrevocably, painfully human that he’d give it all up if he only has to never utter the words ‘ _I can’t’_ again.

He doesn’t realise how completely he’s shutting out the world around himself until there are two hands on his shoulders, and the repetition of his name penetrates the fog in his brain.

Of all the people he expects to find kneeling in front of him, Lancelot is one of the last, and he briefly wonders if he’s finally gone mad.

“What are you doing here?” he croaks, the words grating against his throat, and he rubs his sleeve across his face in a futile attempt to get rid of the tears.

“Taking care of my friend,” Lancelot says firmly, his hands still steady on Merlin’s shoulders until he seems to deem it unlikely that he’ll go anywhere and sits down next to him.

“Didn’t think you still saw me as such,” he spits, bitterness coating his voice. There’s something ugly twisting in his chest, clawing its way up his throat and making him want to push everyone far, far away by any means necessary.

It’s a pity that it’s Lancelot who found him, the one person he can trust to never do what he expects of him. He only shrugs against Merlin’s side, voice infuriatingly calm when he says, “That’s probably fair, though I could say the same.”

Merlin snorts, letting his head drop back against the rough stone. “Going to hold me a lecture, then?”

“I’m sorry that I didn’t talk to you sooner,” Lancelot counters. “I know that you must’ve had your reasons and I should’ve at least let you explain them. Gwen’s been nagging me about it for weeks.”

“So, you’re here for Gwen’s sake? How very noble of you.”

“Merlin,” Lancelot says, and there’s no admonishment in his voice, only endless patience and a hint of concern.

It’s this more than anything else that finally breaks the haze of anger, and Merlin slumps, bowing his head. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly, twisting his hands into the grass at his sides.

Lancelot presses their shoulders together in silent acknowledgement. “Now, are you going to tell me why you’re so upset on the day you’ve been yearning for, ever since I met you?”

He turns his head, staring into the direction of the courtyard, and the words he’s locked away behind his ribs for so very long spill out of him unbidden. “I’m going to see all of it crumble. I’ll watch each and every one of you die while I have to live on. I’ll see Camelot fall and the Golden Age I was promised fade into obscurity, see new Kings and Queens who’ll mean nothing to me while all I get to keep are fading memories of people only I will remember. And for what?”

Squeezing his eyes shut against the renewed tears, he shakes his head. “What good does it do to have friends and family or—or to fall in love when I know that I’m going to lose all of it eventually?”

Lancelot is silent for a while, but he wraps an arm around Merlin’s shoulder and pulls him close. “Is that why you've told no one?” he asks eventually, and there’s a sadness to his voice that makes Merlin regret his words.

Seeing how it’s a bit too late for that, he sighs. “Well, I wasn't lying when I said that I didn't want to put any of you into danger, but yeah, probably. It was easier to try and convince myself that it would just—that I could prepare myself.”

“I'm a knight,” Lancelot says, contemplative, and sits up straighter to be able to look at Merlin.

Merlin raises a brow at him. “I'm aware.”

Lancelot’s lips twitch but he shakes his head, the grip on Merlin’s shoulder tightening. “I'm a knight, and so it's unlikely that I will grow very old. Does that mean Gwen shouldn't love me because she might have to outlive me? Do you think me selfish for potentially putting her into that position?”

“That's different,” Merlin can’t help but scoff, averting his eyes from the knowing glint in Lancelot’s eyes.

There’s a soft hum, a sure sign that Lancelot is choosing his next words carefully. “Of course it's different, I don't think there's anyone who can compare to you,” he finally says. “And I'm not claiming that it's fair or right that you have to live with it, but there has to be a reason, right? Maybe it'll fade with your destiny fulfilled, or maybe there is another purpose for you. There will be other people—if I died, I'd want Gwen to keep living her life.”

“There will never be another one like—“ Merlin cuts himself off, clenching his jaw in frustration. He should’ve really got over the whole mess before he ever set foot into Camelot again.

“Like Arthur? And so, what, you're going to throw away the time you do have together?” Lancelot presses, and it’s the first time tonight that exasperation bleeds into his voice. “Are you really going to let that dictate your life? You, who has defied fate herself?”

He can’t help but snort. “Did you talk to Kilgharrah?” he mutters, mostly to avoid commenting on how Lancelot is making an unfair amount of sense.

“No, to Iseldir. Is Kilgharrah another Druid?”

The laugh that startles out of him is completely unexpected, and he doesn’t have the strength left to push down the warmth slowly seeping through his chest. “Anytime I think about it—and mind you, I try very hard not to—I wonder if I wouldn't do myself a bigger favour by withdrawing before I have to lose all of you,” he says quietly, the admission heavy on his tongue.

He knows that it’s not fair to any of them. That it’s a selfish notion, but sometimes he thinks that after everything he’s sacrificed already, after everything destiny so happily throws at him, he should be allowed to be selfish for once.

It would perhaps be easier if it didn’t feel like carving his own heart out with a rusty spoon.

Lancelot only shrugs. “Merlin, I know you. And if someone asked me for one truth about you, I'd tell them this, and now I'm telling you—if you try to shut yourself away, you will go mad.”

“Are you sure I’m not already?” he asks dryly, then shakes his head, staring up at the night sky. “The thing is—rationally, I know that you’re right, but I just don’t know how I’m supposed to live like this.”

“Nobody expects you to,” Lancelot says, leaning forward until he can meet Merlin’s eyes with a serious intensity that’s so very _Lancelot_ , it makes Merlin’s heart ache. “But the chances that you’re going to figure it out alone are much lower than if you allow your friends to help.”

Merlin’s eyes are burning again, and he didn’t think that he had any more tears left. He swallows around the lump in his throat several times, but before he can come up with an answer, he spots a small, white fleck on the dark sky and frowns.

“What—“

Lancelot follows his line of sight, reaching for his sword, but then Merlin’s eyes adjust and fond exasperation washes over him. “It’s alright, it’s just Aithusa. I told her not to come here tonight but she must’ve felt that something’s wrong.”

“Aithusa?” Lancelot asks with confusion written all over his face, and Merlin remembers that Lancelot has no idea about her yet. They’ve not really talked since the first day after Merlin’s involuntary return, and he’s kept her existence carefully guarded despite his Dragonlord powers being more or less well known at this point.

Truth be told, even with the ban lifted, he’s not so sure if it’s safe for her to be here, has contemplated leaving her with Kilgharrah for a while until the people get at least somewhat used to magic being back in Camelot.

He should’ve known that she’d never go along with that if he doesn’t want to strictly order her to stay with Kilgharrah as he had when they retook Camelot from Morgana.

“I found a dragon egg a few months ago,” he explains absently, leaning forward when she lands in the middle of the training field. She barely stops to get her feet underneath herself before she barrels towards him.

“Hello sweetheart,” he murmurs when she pushes her head against his chest, burying his face in her neck. He’d be lying if he said that her presence didn’t calm something within him.

Lancelot clears his throat, and when Merlin looks up, there’s an amused smile curling his lips. “The dragon egg that Arthur made us go after?”

Right, he kind of forgot about that. Flashing his most innocent smile that clearly doesn’t fool Lancelot for a second, he shrugs. “Maybe?”

“Merlin!” Aithusa chirps, butting her snout against his cheek, and Merlin stares at her in astonishment. “Merlin, Merlin, _Merlin_.”

He laughs, shaking his head and pulling her closer again to which she gives a content purr. “Very good, sweetheart,” he presses out when he feels like he can speak again. “And look, this is Lancelot.”

Aithusa tilts her head, then wriggles out of his grasp to inspect Lancelot more closely, who merely watches her with amusement.

Maybe introducing her to Camelot won’t go that badly, and he’d feel infinitely better with her around.

They stay outside for a while longer, and Merlin can feel the agitation and tension slowly bleeding away. They don’t broach the initial topic again except for when he thanks Lancelot before making his way to his chambers, but the words linger in his mind.

Aithusa has obviously no intentions to leave his side, and Merlin doesn’t have the heart to send her away either. She’s slowly but surely getting too big to curl up with him in bed, but somehow, they still make it fit.

* * *

Merlin’s clearly a fool for not expecting his mother to appear in his chambers first thing in the morning.

It’s not that he’s unhappy to see her—quite the opposite really—but one look at her face is enough to know that the few letters they’ve exchanged since his return to Camelot were not nearly enough to placate her.

Avoiding her for the most part of yesterday probably wasn’t the smartest choice he’s ever made either.

The first thing she does is to pull him into a tight hug. The following slap around his head is probably warranted, and Merlin just pulls her against his chest again, murmuring “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” over and over.

“I know you are,” she finally says, cupping his face between her hands. “But if you ever do that again, I _will_ find you. I don’t care if magic says you’re immortal, I’ll pull your ears so long that you’ll have to find a way to carry them.”

He knows better than to underestimate his mother and merely ducks his head in shame.

She huffs but wraps an arm around him, steering him over to the table that’s taking up half of the room and pushing him down on the bench. She startles when Taranis instantly comes over, tugging at her hair, but Merlin can only grin fondly.

Her mere presence soothes some of the worries running rampage in his mind, and he leans his head against her shoulder. He’s barely slept, dreams full of Arthur’s hurt expression on the battlements last night, and waking up has not made it any better.

There’s a council session later today and he’s already dreading how that will go. If there’s one truth about Arthur that’s absolute, it’s that he struggles with anything regarding his feelings—being rejected in such a manner is not going to go over well.

“Now tell me why you’re so upset,” she interrupts his thoughts, and damn his mother for being so bloody perceptive.

Then again, she’s also awfully smart, and so he repeats what he’s said to Lancelot last night while wording it a little more carefully, and again leaving out what’s taken place between him and Arthur.

He can’t deny that his own approach hasn’t worked all that well, but he simply doesn’t know what else to do.

When he’s finished, she’s silent for a long time, carding her fingers through his hair while petting Taranis with her other hand. “I understand why you’d think shutting yourself away would help,” she finally says, the same sadness he’s heard in Lancelot’s voice ringing through her words. “I did the same after your father had to leave. Or well, I would’ve, if I haven’t had you. I know it’s barely comparable, but when it comes right down to it, people just—we tend to think that being on our own will offer fewer chances for us to get hurt.”

It’s so rare that she mentions his father at all that he doesn’t dare speak, just hugs her closer to his side. If he ignores the large chambers and the sounds drifting into the room from beyond the doors, he can nearly pretend that they’re still back in Ealdor. Back when he’s never heard of prophecies and destinies and Arthur bloody Pendragon.

“But I eventually understood—and I think you did too—that you’re not shielding yourself from getting hurt. It just hurts differently. I can’t claim to have an easy solution for how to deal with what’s been put on your shoulders, but no matter for how long you live, you will always only be able to take it one day at a time,” she says, a hint of steel creeping into her tone.

She shifts, taking his face between her hands again. “If you keep worrying about the future or the past, you will only drive yourself mad. Do you want to look back on all this, years down the line, and be full of happy memories of the people you loved, and who loved you, or do you want to be full of regrets for not making the most of the time you’ve had together?”

Merlin swallows, wrapping his fingers around her thin wrists and leaning his forehead against hers. “It sounds so simple when you put it like that,” he presses out, his voice hoarse, and she gives him a small smile.

“I’m not saying it’s simple. All I’m saying is that whenever I think of your father, I’m glad for the time we had together. Of course, I’m sad that he had to leave, but I wouldn’t exchange meeting him for anything in the world—not only because I would’ve never had you.”

Something loosens in his chest, shifting and unravelling, and he wouldn’t be able to withhold the tears if he tried.

His mother simply wraps her arms around him and lets him cry into her shoulder as if he were still a small child.

“You’re right,” he finally says, and there’s a certainty now that steels his resolve.

She tugs at his ear, grinning. “I know. I’m your mother, it comes with the job. Now come on, you need to eat something and clean up before your first official day as the Court Sorcerer of Camelot.”

The pride and happiness are radiating off of her, and not even the prospect of facing Arthur can quell the gratitude and affection swelling in his chest. He really should just keep his mother around.

* * *

The way down to the council chambers feels much shorter than it ever has before, which is really not fair as far as Merlin is concerned.

Gwaine’s leaning against the wall across from the double doors, grinning when he spots him. “Look at you Merlin, one could nearly mistake you for one of those nobles.”

In spite of himself, Merlin snorts, smirking at him. “You mean like you?” he teases in a low tone, only more amused when Gwaine rolls his eyes.

“Ready for your first big day? Or well—after all those negotiations, it’s not really your first but—“

“Sir Gwaine, Merlin, I’d appreciate it if you weren’t late because of the need to dawdle around!” Arthur’s voice whips through the corridor, tense and cold in a way Merlin hasn’t heard in a very long time. He doesn’t manage to bite back his flinch.

Before he can catch an actual look of Arthur’s face, he’s brushed past them, but his shoulders are rigid underneath his chainmail.

Gwaine stares after him, then turns to raise a questioning brow at Merlin, but even if they actually had the time, he does not feel like explaining this to Gwaine—or anyone else for that matter.

Shaking his head, he tries for a smile that most likely comes out as more of a grimace than anything else and follows Arthur into the room.

Nearly everyone’s there already, the only seats left Gwaine’s among the knights, and Merlin’s to Arthur’s right.

No matter how much Merlin anticipated the tension after last night, it’s still so much worse. His skin itches with Arthur’s presence a few inches from him, his throat is dry, and he’s barely able to focus on what’s actually being discussed.

Time seems to stretch on endlessly, but it doesn’t take long before the obvious tension between the two of them bleeds into the room.

Arthur’s expression is practically carved from stone, cold and unmoving, and the few times he comments on the ongoing discussion his voice is sharp and short.

Suffice to say that there’s far less to talk about than usual.

Both Gwaine and Lancelot keep trying to catch Merlin’s eye, and he can feel several others glance at him repeatedly, but he has enough trouble as it is to keep himself from staring at Arthur.

When finally, _finally_ Arthur calls an end to the meeting, Merlin’s fingers hurt with how tightly he’s clenched them into fists or around the edge of his chair for the whole time. His jaw aches just as much, and there’s fear wrapping around his bones that he’s finally messed them up beyond repair.

The irony isn’t lost on him.

“Arthur—“ he says as soon as people start to leave, but he’s ignored, has barely time to get out of his chair before Arthur’s already storming out of the room.

Worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, he contemplates going after him right now but disregards it.

If it was difficult for him to sit here for two hours, then Arthur must be off even worse. Everything in him is screaming to sort this out _now_ , right this second, but he knows all too well how horribly wrong pushing Arthur can go.

“Care to tell me what that was all about?” Gwaine says, appearing at his side, and Merlin jumps.

“I’m—“ he breaks off, shaking his head. “No, not really.”

Gwaine watches him for a few beats before he nods. “Whatever it is, do me a favour and sort it out soon, yeah? I don’t think the knights can survive another few days of training like he’s put us through today.”

He winces in sympathy and nods. “I’ll try,” he says, then nearly jumps again when Leon appears at his other side.

“My Lord,” Leon says, and Merlin freezes, staring at him " _What_ did you just say to me?"

Leon frowns, head tilting. "Is something the matter, my Lord?"

Right, so he has not heard that wrong the first time, and he narrows his eyes into a mock-glare. "Ever call me that again and I'm going to turn you into a toad,” he says, somewhere between absolutely exasperated and amused. He ignores Gwaine’s snort from behind him, knowing that he’ll never live this down.

Leon’s eyes widen, but there’s a gleam in them that he’s not completely successful at hiding. "But wouldn't that count as an abuse of your power?"

Merlin raises a brow, smirking faintly and leaning in close. "Not if nobody finds out."

For a second, he’s not sure if he read the whole interaction wrong—they’ve always got on well, but Leon can be a bit hung up on court formalities, and the crease between his brows looks suddenly much more serious. 

Then, Leon’s lips twitch and his shoulders shake, and Merlin shoves him, unable to help his own grin. "You’re such a prat."

“I’m sure it will catch on eventually,” Leon shoots back, still grinning and clapping him on the shoulder.

Merlin dearly hopes not, though it occurs to him that it very well might. “Do you need something or are you merely hear to amuse yourself?” he asks, choosing to have this particular crisis later.

“Yes, actually. I was wondering if you had time right now to go over the ideas for magical protection on our armour and weapons?” Leon says, and it takes Merlin longer than it should to remember that he’s brought that up a few times during the negotiations.

Seeing that he has to wait until he can talk to Arthur anyway, he nods, gesturing for Leon to lead the way. “We should get Mordred and Gwen if they have time and are willing to help, they’d probably have input that I wouldn’t think of. Especially as it’s a rather larger scale than I’m used to.”

Leon glances at him, frowning. “Didn’t you that say you’ve applied magic to Arthur’s and some of our armour for years? Not that I mind asking them, but I know most there is to know about weapons.”

Merlin grins at the memory of Arthur’s indignant expression when he discovered that Merlin did it for tournaments too, but it quickly slips as he remembers how things are standing between them.

“Yeah, but the trouble was that I had to reapply the charms around once a week because they wear off too quickly. Gwen might know if there’s a step in the process of forging where it would be easier to make them stick. And Mordred has been pestering people with magic about weapons for ages, so he might know things I don’t,” he explains, side-stepping a servant who’s hurrying down the corridor.

“I didn’t even think of that,” Leon says, curiosity gleaming in his eyes. “Should I go and find Gwen, and you get Mordred?”

He can’t help but grin at the enthusiasm; out of all the knights, he’s been most worried about Leon’s reaction to his magic. He should’ve known that the chance to improve their weapons would win him over.

“Mordred already knows, but I can get some weapons and armour, and we’ll meet in my chambers?”

There’s a flash of confusion, swiftly followed by understanding, and Leon shakes his head. “Any chance that you can provide us with your long-distance communicational skills too?”

Merlin only laughs in response, taking the corner that’ll lead him to the armoury. He stops though when Leon calls his name, turning to look at him.

“I’m glad you’re back,” Leon says with a small smile. “For good, I mean. It wasn’t the same without you.”

“Yeah. Yeah, me too,” he presses out, the words taking him off guard, and he stares at Leon for a beat too long before hurrying down the corridor.

* * *

As much as tinkering with magic and weapons together with Gwen, Mordred, and Leon served as a welcome distraction, Merlin’s stomach is still tied up in knots when he makes his way to Arthur’s chambers that evening.

After a moment of hesitation, he knocks once but doesn’t wait for an answer.

Arthur’s standing by the window, his fingers pressed against his lips, and his shoulders stiffen when Merlin clears his throat.

“What is it?” he asks, his voice flat, and he doesn’t turn around.

Drawing a deep breath, Merlin steps further into the room and leans against the table. “Can we talk? About last night?”

“I don’t think there’s anything to say,” Arthur answers. He finally turns his head to look at Merlin, and his expression is still completely blank. “You’ve made it more than clear what you thought about—that. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable though, it won’t happen again. I was merely caught up in the atmosphere of the day.”

Merlin closes his eyes, twisting his fingers into his sleeves, and ignores the doubts that are trying to strangle the words in his throat. “Arthur—“

“It’s fine, Merlin.”

“No, it’s not!” he snaps, his agitation getting the better of him. Sighing, he rubs a hand over his face. “At least let me explain? Please? If you want me to leave after that, I swear I’ll stop bothering you.”

Arthur stays unnaturally still for so long that Merlin fears that he’ll deny him, but then his shoulders slump and he bows his head. “Go on then.”

There was a whole speech he prepared, words carefully put together, crafted and disregarded over and over until he felt that they’d at least come close to explaining the whole mess he created.

What actually comes out of his mouth is, “I love you.”

Arthur’s head whips around, surprise written into every line of his face before it shutters again, steel creeping into his eyes. “What the hell are you playing at?” he says very quietly, barely concealed fury pressed into every word.

Merlin’s still reeling with his involuntary confession; his heart is pounding in his chest and his palms are sweating, but he looks at Arthur and sees the hidden hurt underneath all the impenetrable composure. Looks at Arthur and sees all the months they were apart because Merlin tried to convince himself that locking himself away would be the right choice.

Looks at Arthur and thinks _to hell with it_.

“I love you,” he repeats, the words steady this time, and his magic soars with the feeling of finally saying it out loud. “I’m also a colossal idiot who panicked because apparently, that’s something I do a lot now. I’ve tried to stay away from you and from Camelot because I thought I’d get used to it, that it would somehow, miraculously make it hurt less. But all it did was to provide me with the most miserable months of my life, and now I’m back and still doing the same non-sense like some learning-resistance fool.”

Some of the anger has left Arthur’s expression. He’s frowning now, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, and Merlin hates himself for being the one who did this to him.

“I’m—“ Merlin starts but bites off the ‘ _sorry’_ with a quick shake of his head. He lost count of how many apologies have been uttered between them over the last few weeks, and sorry simply doesn’t cut it anymore. “I promised you, no more lies. And I’m not expecting you to just—to not be angry but I said I’d explain, so—“

He swallows, the words burning on his tongue like acid, and he distantly wonders why it’s infinitely harder to explain this to Arthur than it was with Lancelot or his mother.

“You’re going to die,” he chokes out, his voice breaking, and gods, he really isn’t at his most coherent tonight. “One day, you’re going to die because, for all my magic, I can’t stop the course of life. Which is rather ironic, considering that my magic won’t let _me_ die, apparently. I honestly have no idea how this bloody immortality-thing works but—“

“Merlin,” Arthur says, and his voice is so much softer now that the difference is jarring.

Still, Merlin shakes his head, rubbing his sleeve over his eyes against the tears. “I’m not telling you this so you’ll have sympathy or—or pity for me. I just—Arthur, I can’t lose you. _I can’t._ Not again, not—not for good. I don’t know what I’d do if I have to watch you die but I have a feeling that it won’t be anything good. I’ve tried to convince myself for so long that if I only stayed away and got myself used to being on my own, it would make it easier. Which clearly hasn’t worked out well for either of us—“

“ _Merlin_ ,” Arthur repeats, more insistent, and when he looks up, Arthur’s standing in front of him with that small, soft smile that always seems to say _, you’re such an idiot but gods, you’re my idiot_ , and Merlin wonders how he could’ve ever read it differently.

“I know,” he says before Arthur can actually do it himself. “Both Lancelot and my mother have already spent a lot of time explaining to me why that’s a stupid idea.”

“It’s not,” Arthur says, his voice low and urgent. Merlin’s heart sinks into his stomach so fast that his knees go weak, and it must’ve shown on his face because Arthur crosses the remaining distance between them and grabs his shoulders. “You idiot, that’s not what I meant. But I think—maybe I would’ve done the same thing. It makes sense, in a very convoluted kind of way.”

And truly, if Arthur- _I-repress-all-my-emotions_ -Pendragon compliments your coping strategies, you know that you took a wrong turn somewhere, Merlin thinks in the slightly hysterical corner of his mind.

“I—I hate that you have to deal with this. That I’m at least partly the reason destiny, or fate, or the goddess or _whoever_ is responsible for this huge mess is forcing you to live with that kind of future dangling over your head,” Arthur says, and there’s anger in his voice again, though this time it’s clearly not directed at Merlin.

There are a thousand things Merlin wants to say, but his heart has lodged itself so firmly in his throat that it’s impossible to force them past.

Running a hand through his hair, Arthur swallows and meets Merlin’s eyes again. “I hate that one day, I will have to leave you behind and there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m not—I don’t even know how _I’m_ supposed to handle this, to be honest. How I’m supposed to love you enough to make up for all the years that I won’t be there, and—”

Arthur’s still talking, but there’s a rushing noise in Merlin’s ears that makes it impossible to listen.

“You’re enough,” he finally gets out, his voice cracking over the words, and he doesn’t care that he’s crying and grinning like a fool. Doesn’t care that his chest feels too tight and his magic is surging up within him and that his hands are shaking as he reaches out to brush his thumbs over Arthur’s jaw. “You’re more than enough, and if you’re alright with that, I would really, _really_ like to kiss you right now.”

There’s a beat where Arthur stares at him with his lips still half-formed around words, and Merlin knows that it was probably important. Knows that the problem won’t just disappear just because he loves Arthur so bloody much that his skin feels too small to contain it all, but he really doesn’t care.

Instead of answering, Arthur grabs the front of Merlin’s tunic and pulls him close, wrapping his arms around his waist. He leans his foreheads against Merlin’s and closes his eyes, and Merlin can feel him trembling underneath his palms.

“Promise me you’re not going to leave again,” Arthur whispers against his lips, and there’s still fear lacing itself through the words. “I know it’s selfish and—“

“I promise,” Merlin vows, pressing a hard kiss against Arthur’s lips. “I promise,” he says again, brushing his lips over his brows, over his cheeks, back to his mouth. “ _I promise, I promise, I promise.”_

They cling to each other for a long time, until their legs refuse to hold them up any longer. Merlin strips Arthur of his clothes piece by piece, the motions still familiar. They curl up in bed and keep clinging to each other, hands meticulously committing every line of their bodies to memory until Merlin’s sure that he wouldn’t forget a single thing about Arthur even if he has to live for centuries.

Not the curve of his ribs or the ridge of his collarbones. Not the large scar adorning his shoulder, nor the faint, white lines on his fingers. The feeling of Arthur’s calloused palms against his skin, or how he shudders when Merlin drags his lips over the hollow of his throat, the way he smells and how his tongue curls around the words he whispers for only Merlin to hear; _I love you, I love you, I love you._

* * *

Merlin wakes with hazy images still lingering in his mind that are definitely not his own. As much as he loves Ealdor, he’s not in the habit of dreaming about domestic farm life with only Arthur for company—and if he were, he’d make the prat do much more of the work, magic or not.

That doesn’t mean that the idea of _Arthur_ dreaming about it isn’t spreading warmth through his chest. It’s only rivalled by blinking his eyes open to find the prat in question pressed against his side, hair sticking up in every direction and face still slack with sleep.

It also doesn’t mean that he won’t tease him about it mercilessly.

He runs a hand through the blond strands of hair, curling them around his fingers and watching as Arthur slowly stirs. His heart feels too big for his chest, and he buries his face in the crook of Arthur’s neck when he finally blinks his eyes open because he just knows that he’s wearing an absolutely besotted expression.

“You’re still here,” Arthur murmurs, his arm tightening around Merlin’s waist, and he aches at the wonder in that simple observation.

Lifting his head, he meets Arthur’s gaze. “I’m not going anywhere. I promised, remember?”

Arthur’s lips curl into a smile and he presses a kiss to Merlin’s forehead that has no right to make him feel weak all over again.

“Not to mention that you’d apparently be ready to bear the life of farming with me if I were to ask,” he teases, desperate to get the blasted lump out of his throat. “It’s cute that you think I would let you get away with doing only the easy tasks.”

Confusion flickers over Arthur’s face, swiftly followed by a flush creeping over his cheeks. “It’s not like I can choose what I’m dreaming about, _Mer_ lin. Maybe it’s just easiest to picture you in as simple an environment as your head clearly is, seeing that you were meant to sort this whole thing out weeks ago.”

It’s a shame that his own grin just keeps growing, and he rolls on top of Arthur to keep him from running off. “Still, you dreamt of me,” he says, yelping when Arthur flips them over without any effort whatsoever.

“Bold words for someone whose dreams I’m also sharing,” Arthur says with a smirk, and alright, Merlin should’ve probably expected the conversation to take that particular turn eventually. “And they were decidedly less harmless than domestic farm life.”

Distantly, Merlin thinks that it shouldn’t come as a surprise how their banter carries over so easily into whatever it is they are now, and the realisation makes something surge in his chest, wrapping around his ribs and up his throat until he’s so giddy with it that he barely bites back laughter.

It would be admitting defeat though and he very much cannot do that. “Who’s to say that I can’t control what I’m dreaming?” he asks with a smirk that belies his deliberately innocent tone, and it only grows when Arthur narrows his eyes at him.

Of course, that would be the moment when there’s a loud knock on the door and they both jump as if they were caught by the cook while stealing honey cakes.

“Should I—“ Merlin starts, gesturing into the direction of the changing screen with his heart beating too fast in his chest to make himself believe that the answer doesn’t matter.

Arthur frowns at him in confusion, and then only rolls his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he says, moving out of the bed and throwing him a tunic. “Clothes should be more than enough to not give a heart attack to whoever thinks it would be a good idea to bother me this early.”

Merlin makes him trip over his own feet in retaliation, and it’s still sending a thrill down his spine to use his magic so openly, just for the sake of it. To see Arthur merely huff and hide a smile, instead of flinching or staring at him warily.

As it turns out, it’s a servant with breakfast. The mystery of who sent them in the first place is answered a minute later when Merlin hears Mordred’s smug voice in his head. _‘I know, I’m taking a leap of faith here, but if the two of you still haven’t sorted yourselves out, Gwaine is threatening to start a rebellion.’_

Maybe Merlin should send Kilgharrah after them the next time he has the chance. His current methods—Aithusa—seem to be sorely lacking.

Breakfast is quiet and comfortable, and Merlin thinks he might not be the only one between the two of them who’s still not completely convinced that all of this is real. Arthur has his ankle hooked around Merlin’s underneath the table, and he keeps throwing him glances that make it hard to focus solely on the food.

When they’re done eating, Arthur leans back, and there’s a question lingering in his eyes somewhere. Merlin waits, watching him as he turns his mother’s ring over and over.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Arthur starts, and Merlin instinctively tenses. In his experience, nothing good ever starts with those words. Arthur huffs, grabbing his wrist until he can wrap his fingers around it, and there’s so much fond exasperation in the quirk of his lips that Merlin’s concern instantly melts away.

It should maybe trouble him more how easily Arthur can do that.

“I was merely wondering about the dreams again,” Arthur says, running his thumb over Merlin’s pulse-point. “I don’t mind it all that much, especially with—as it’s mostly harmless dreams now.“ _As the nightmares have let up_ , is what he doesn’t say and doesn’t need to, and Merlin winces at the reminder. “But I’m still curious. I know you were as busy as I over the last few weeks, but did you have an idea what might’ve caused it in the first place?”

The last remains of nervousness drain out of him, and he turns his hand to link their fingers, taking a moment to appreciate how neatly their hands fit together. It’s a soppy thought, but he can’t bring himself to care.

“I did some reading and talked to a few people on the days I wasn’t in Camelot,” he finally says, shaking himself to pay attention. “I meant to talk to you about it, but then the Solstice came up and—well, everything else. Remember what I said about the mind-speak some magic users can do?”

Arthur tilts his head, and Merlin’s not sure if he will ever get used to talking about magic and only being met with curiosity and maybe even a hint of awe. “I think so. Basically, you can talk to each other in your head, right? So it’s like that?”

“Kind of, and kind of not at all,” he says, shrugging helplessly.

Truth be told, no one he’s talked to has an actual explanation, as is way too often the case when it comes to Merlin. “It’s not only communication though. Depending on how much control people have and if they allow it or not, we can also get an idea of what the other person is feeling. And as I said before, we must have had some kind of connection from the start because it’s the only explanation anyone has as for how I knew that you were in danger in the Caves of Balor, and how I was able to send you the light.”

Biting his lip, he takes a moment to consider his next words carefully. Arthur’s still relaxed, leaning back in his chair and watching Merlin with bright eyes. He wishes he could freeze them here like this, conserve them in a quiet morning of only the two of them without the world expecting anything—and promptly has to stop his magic from actually freezing time.

He sits up straighter to keep his focus, inwardly cursing how ready his magic always is to do his bidding when it comes to Arthur. “My best guess is that with my attempts to contact you through the crystal on several occasions, I strengthened that bond. For all intents and purposes, it shouldn’t have worked in the first place—even mind-speak is only possible over certain distances. It depends on how powerful both people are, and I was more than a kingdom away, so it should’ve been completely impossible.”

“So, let me get this straight,” Arthur says, a crease forming between his brows that Merlin wants to smooth away. “Somehow—because of destiny or whatever—we have some kind of connection, but it never really showed itself except for when I was in mortal danger and you were dying.”

Put like that, it sounds even more laughable, and Merlin grins. “Sorry, not my fault,” he says with a shrug, and Arthur rolls his eyes.

“But then, you did something with your magic that shouldn’t be possible, and—what? Created something that should be even less possible? I don’t even _have_ magic, Merlin, how the hell do we have some weird kind of mind-connection that only works for dreams?”

Merlin shifts in his chair and bites his lip, and there’s the expression on Arthur’s face that always tells him that he might still just end up in the stocks if he doesn’t just get on with it soon.

“Well, it’s a bit more complicated. You don’t have magic, but you were born of magic which apparently does have some influence on these kinds of things. And well—“ he stops, shifts again, and fixes his eyes on the wood of the table in front of him.

“Come on, out with it. It can’t be that bad,” Arthur finally says, and Merlin bites his tongue to keep himself from asking how many times Arthur has said that, only for things to be much worse.

Well, there’s nothing for it, however much he’d like to prolong this. “Apparently, we have a half-formed soul bond,” he rushes out, pulling his hand out of Arthur’s grasp as the urge to fidget becomes too much. “I swear, I didn’t know this would happen, and there might be a way to undo it though I’ll have to—“

“Merlin,” Arthur interrupts, and the lack of anger and wariness catches him so much by surprise that he instantly shuts up, eyes snapping back to meet Arthur’s gaze. “Don’t get me wrong, it sounds exactly like the kind of nonsense you would do. Greatest warlock or not, not knowing what would happen but jumping in headfirst with a half-baked plan is very much on-brand for you.”

Merlin snorts in spite of himself and can’t even bring himself to deny it.

“Could it become a problem? Does it bother you?” Arthur asks, and his voice is softer now, a strange vulnerability to it that leaves Merlin clueless as to what he’s thinking.

Truth be told, he hasn’t really considered how he feels about it. It was Iseldir who had brought up the possibility, and Merlin’s spent most of his days in between the negotiations buried in research about how to undo it, and panicking as to how Arthur would react to being soul-bonded to his former, treasonous, assumed-to-be-dead manservant.

“I’m—“ he starts, tilting his head. “I mean—no. No, not really, although there are some problems that can come from an only half-formed bond. That we share each other’s dreams occasionally is a side-effect, most likely strengthened by being apart for so long. There might be others, but half-formed bonds were unheard of even before the purge.”

Arthur gives a slow nod, his fingers curling around Merlin’s wrist again. “What would a fully formed bond mean?”

His breath catches in his throat and he stills, his pulse suddenly loud in his ears. “It’s—well, it’s considered more sacred than any matrimonial bond in the Old Religion. It would mean that we’d be able to communicate mentally but without things leaking through involuntarily, and sense when the other is in danger or in pain. There aren’t many records on it, but it’s said that those who are bonded are attuned to each other in a way that goes beyond any other connection. And it can’t be broken once it’s formed.”

It’s a wonder that he even manages to explain it in any coherent manner whatsoever if he’s honest.

Arthur’s eyes are wide, completely lacking the anger or worry or mistrust Merlin expected. There’s only a sense of wonder, an awe and longing shining in his eyes that are threatening to choke Merlin with how much the same things are reverberating through his chest, now that he’s allowing himself to even consider it.

The silence stretches between them. Arthur’s fingers are still firm around Merlin’s wrist, and he follows the movement of Arthur’s throat when he swallows, the flick of his tongue when he wets his lips. Watches the want and uncertainty and vulnerability chase each other over his expression and wonders if Arthur needs to think about this more or if Merlin should be the one to say it out loud.

A part of him still fears that he’s reading this all wrong, and another yearns with so much sudden intensity, he can only silently thank the goddess that the idea of Arthur perhaps _wanting_ this has never crossed his mind before. He would’ve staggered underneath the weight of it.

“Do you want to break it?” Arthur finally whispers, his voice hoarse, and there’s the fear in his eyes again that Merlin has come to loathe ever since he’s returned.

“No. I would if it’s what you prefer. But if you’re asking me if I want to—if for the rest of your—for the rest of _our_ lives...” He can’t go on, his throat closing up as it sinks in that this is an actual possibility; that he very nearly threw it all away, believing that Arthur would hate him, would be better off if he stayed away.

Arthur’s eyes are shining too brightly, and he swallows several times before he speaks. “I— _yes_. If it’s too early for you or if you’re not sure yet, I understand and you don’t have to, obviously. But I—gods, I’d do it only to never have to worry about your sorry hide again. But I also know that I want you by my side for every bloody day that’s still waiting for us, and—“

Merlin’s chair clatters to the floor with how quickly he leaps out of it, but he doesn’t pay it any mind as he flings himself at Arthur, shutting him up by pressing their mouths together. Their teeth clash and their noses bump, and it takes them a moment to figure out where to put their limbs, but then he melts against Arthur, arms coming up to wrap around his shoulders as Arthur sinks his hands into Merlin’s hair.

Magic seems to dance around them, and Merlin’s not sure if it’s his own, unable to be contained with the way his heart is trying to beat out of his chest. His fingers tingle where they brush against Arthur’s skin, and there’s a faint buzzing noise that’s hard to distinguish from the blood rushing in his ears.

“Is that—“ Arthur starts, then stops and stills underneath him with a strangled noise in the back of his throat.

Merlin slowly blinks his eyes open, still dazed, and it takes him several moments to notice that the room is much brighter than it should be. There are golden tendrils wrapping themselves around both of them, starting at his fingertips at the nape of Arthur’s hair and curling down his arms, around Arthur’s chest and then his own.

They’re warm, he finds when he flexes his hands, like the sun on an early June day, and they pulse with his movements.

“So,” Arthur murmurs, a fond smile curling his lips when Merlin looks at him. “I take that as a yes, I suppose. What exactly do we need to do if we want to form the bond?”

And really, Arthur has taken all of this a million times better than Merlin could’ve hoped for in his wildest dreams. Still, this latest development, which Arthur does not seem to grasp just yet—and to be perfectly honest, Merlin’s not sure he has either—might just be the one step too far.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t lie about this even if he wanted to. Clearing his throat, he bites his lip and leans back slightly. “Uhm—I think my magic just… did?”

“You—what?”

“I didn’t mean to, obviously but—well, my magic kind of likes you? And a half-formed bond is a strain on the magic. Not that I noticed it much but apparently, that’s a thing, so it would make sense that it tries to fix it as soon as it can, and usually, I just keep it controlled but you caught me off guard and—“

Arthur throws his head back and laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners, and if it wasn’t for his arms around Merlin’s waist, he probably would’ve fallen out of the chair. The golden strands flare with it, washing him in golden light, and Merlin’s drunk with how bloody beautiful he is.

 _‘You’re such a clotpole,_ ’ Merlin thinks, and it’s half habit and half urge to test out if he’s right even though he completely fails at masking the pure affection that goes with the word.

Arthur stills, staring at him with wide eyes before narrowing them slightly, head tilting. _‘And you’re an idiot.’_

Merlin can do nothing but kiss him again, again and again until their lips are bruised and his legs are numb with the position they’re in, and still, he thinks he’ll never get enough of this.

“I’m not an expert on magic,” Arthur says when they finally break apart, and the golden light has faded for the most part but some of it seems to cling to Arthur’s skin.

“I’m aware,” Merlin says before he can actually voice any of the overwhelming things his mind provides him with; not that he can make any more of a display of just what exactly he feels for Arthur.

Arthur pinches his side, but he’s still smirking when he goes on. “But I would’ve thought something so—monumental would require more focus or intent than you losing your head over how good of a kisser I am.”

“Obviously, that’s only because you’re no expert on magic,” Merlin bluffs, although he’s certain that the blush he can feel on his cheeks and the huge grin that’s splitting his face is giving him away. “It’s only because I already did half the work, nothing whatsoever related to your pompous, arrogant self.”

“You love me, really,” Arthur shoots back, smug as ever, but Merlin still softens, pressing another kiss to his forehead.

“I really do,” he murmurs, and because he can never let Arthur have the last word, adds, “And because you love me too, it’s going to be you who explains to your court that you’re basically married now without any actual ceremonies ever taking place.”

The choking sound that escapes Arthur alone would be worth it, and Merlin only offers a casual shrug. “I _did_ tell you beforehand.”

He thinks it’s a wise choice that he jumps off Arthur’s lap with one last kiss and disappears out of the room before that has sunken in completely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, they finally got their shit together, and with a little extra on top of it. I'm _so_ excited to hear what you think about it to be honest.. 😶❤️


	13. one single thread of gold, tying me to you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your feedback! ❤️
> 
> Chapter title is from [Taylor Swift - invisible string](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OuFnpmGwg5k)

_‘Merlin!’_ Arthur tries for the umpteenth time, rolling his eyes when he’s once again only met with stubborn silence.

Seriously, this whole matter of mental communication is vastly overrated, considering that the other person can refuse to answer if they’re annoyed. Which Merlin clearly still is.

“Leon,” he calls when he sees him walking down a corridor to his side, ignoring how several servants turn their heads at his volume. “Have you seen my idiot of a Court Sorcerer, by any chance?”

Leon’s lips twitch but he thankfully doesn’t comment on Arthur’s obvious agitation. “He might be with Gaius, Sire. I think Mordred mentioned something about brewing magical potions earlier.”

Right, Arthur could’ve thought of that himself, not that he would ever admit it. “Thank you,” he says, not waiting for an answer before hurrying off again.

If he thought that it was difficult to keep track of Merlin back when he was still Arthur’s servant, it was nothing compared to now. And while that makes sense to some extent, considering that his duties reach from battle strategy over healing to evaluating how to update the castle library, Arthur thinks that they’re married—at least as far as the Old Religion is concerned—should count for something.

Then again, it’s that very topic which most likely keeps Merlin from answering him right now and why Arthur is searching for him in the first place.

To say that the court, the older nobles in particular, were not amused with the recent development would be an understatement, not that Arthur expected any differently after he had given it some thought.

It’s not only the lack of official ceremonies and following court protocol. There’s the fact that Merlin’s a sorcerer, not a noble, and a man—in that order—the absence of preceding announcements, and a hundred other things Arthur could honestly not care less about.

He’s perfectly aware that the whole thing might appear rushed or ill-considered. But he hasn’t spent the better part of the last year in a constant state of grief and longing for nothing. If he’s perfectly honest, at least to himself, the reassurance that Merlin’s not going to leave at a moment’s notice alone would’ve been enough to make him agree.

It’s lucky that Arthur has never been surer about anything in his life.

Shaking the thoughts as he arrives in front of the door to Gaius’ workshop, he barges inside without knocking.

“I’m still not going to marry you officially,” Merlin says as soon as he steps through the door, and he doesn’t even bother to look up from the book he’s staring down at with Mordred and Gwen at his sides.

Arthur thinks it’s completely unfair that Merlin can tell where Arthur is at nearly all times while he has to run through half the castle if he wants to find him.

He offers Gaius an apologetic smile when he raises an eyebrow at him but still plops down on the bench across from the trio.

“I know that I’m repeating myself, Merlin, but why not? It would make a lot of things decidedly easier.”

Merlin stills, and Arthur can see his shoulders stiffening. Gwen and Mordred exchange a glance and apparently decide to leave them to it, moving over to another table where several cauldrons are bubbling along.

“I’m not going to marry just because some nobles think their stuffy traditions are worth more than those of my kind, or because it’s convenient,” Merlin finally says, and it’s not the first time he’s saying this either.

Like the last few times they’ve had this discussion, Arthur has the strong impression that it’s not all there is to it. It’s the main reason why he’s still pressing the whole matter so much even if he didn’t plan to have the discussion right here.

“They’re my traditions as well,” he says as calmly as he can muster, leaning forward and trying to catch Merlin’s eye. “Is the idea of marrying me publicly really that upsetting to you?”

Merlin snorts, finally glancing up with a small smile curling his lips. “You know perfectly well that that’s not the issue; every magical being in the vicinity of Camelot felt what happened because apparently, I can neither die nor marry in peace.”

“Then why don’t you tell me what the actual problem is?” Arthur snaps, the lingering, irrational hurt over Merlin’s stubborn refusal getting the better of his temper. And alright, maybe he should’ve waited to have this discussion in the privacy of their own chambers after all.

There’s a pause where Merlin stares at him, a slow crease forming between his brows, and then he sighs, finally pushing the book away. “Because—“ he huffs, clenching his jaw and averting his eyes before drawing a deep breath. “If we’re married by Camelot’s traditions, I will have to rule when you die. I know Camelot means everything to you, and trust me, it does to me as well. But not only can you not expect me to stay here when you’re—when you’re gone, but it will also elicit way too much interest in my life and death. Can you see how that would eventually become a problem?”

Mordred’s cough is a poor attempt to cover up his snort, but Arthur ignores him. He feels like an idiot for not thinking of this.

Reaching over the table, he wraps his fingers around Merlin’s wrist and tugs until he meets Arthur’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says, offering a small smile. “Why didn’t you tell me the first time I bothered you about this?”

The disbelievingly raised eyebrow that gets directed at him is a worryingly close impression of Gaius’, and he winces.

“Right, one would expect I had thought of that already.”

Before Merlin can answer, there’s a mumbled reply coming from Mordred, and Merlin turns his head to glare at him. “What did you just say?”

Mordred looks sheepish for all of three seconds, but then just rolls his eyes. “I said that both of you should’ve thought about a few things before fully forming the bond,” he says, shrugging a shoulder that is at odds with the serious expression he’s suddenly wearing. “Especially if you’re taking Emrys’ immortality into account.”

“What do you mean?” Merlin asks, a mixture of curiosity and dread in his voice that mirrors the feeling that’s slowly taking root in Arthur’s chest.

It’s Gaius who answers though, which gets him a grateful smile from Mordred. “As both of you are probably aware, those who enter into a soul bond can sometimes feel each other’s pain if the bond is particularly strong. It is said that nothing is as severe as a bonded partner’s death, and in nearly all known cases, the other person doesn’t live on for long after it.”

The dread spreads so quickly through Arthur’s veins that he feels light-headed, and his fingers clench around Merlin’s wrist. “Did you know?” he breathes out, and he knows that the horror must be written all over his face.

Merlin’s pale though, his eyes wide and his hands trembling, and he shakes his head. “I only researched about uncompleted bonds and how to break them,” he chokes out, instantly leaning into Gwen’s touch when she appears at his back.

“It’s not only that,” Gaius says, and his expression is apologetic. “Your death would possibly have serious effects on Arthur as well, at least for the time it takes you to come back. Soul bonds are usually only possible between people who both have magic. While Arthur’s a special case, it’s your magic alone that sustains the bond, and I don’t know the consequences if that fell away even for a short time.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then Merlin groans, letting his head drop to the table.

Mordred sits down next to him, nudging his shoulder. “You know, it might do you some good to have a little more regard for your own life. Even knowing that you can’t die, it is rather disturbing to watch it happen.”

It’s an obvious attempt to lighten the mood, and if the way Merlin nearly shoves Mordred off the bench is anything to go by, it works at least a little.

Arthur’s still hung up on the whole thing though and tries to focus on something he can at least get an answer to. “What are you talking about?” he asks Mordred, trying to think of a time where that could’ve taken place. “Not that I don’t agree, of course, but, you know,” he adds, gesturing vaguely with his free hand.

Completely ignoring the glare Merlin’s directing at him, Mordred rolls his eyes. “The incident with the veil, obviously—“

“ _Mordred—_ “

“What do you mean?” Arthur interrupts before Merlin can shut him up, and he squeezes Merlin’s wrist a bit more tightly. “I feel like you haven’t told me about that on purpose.”

Merlin winces before plastering an innocent smile on his face that doesn’t fool anyone in the room.

“How did you close the veil?” Gwen asks, and her tone is curious and wary in equal measures, more or less the exact same emotions that are mirrored on Gaius’ face.

“You do know that this is my revenge for how you froze me in place and made me watch, right?” Mordred says with a smirk, twisting out of the way when Merlin attempts to sink his elbow into his side.

Sighing, Merlin runs a hand through his hair and shrugs. “It’s not that special, to be honest. I knew I couldn’t die, so I walked through it. Or tried to anyway, it spit me back out instead of killing and returning me to the Crystal Cave.”

They all stare at him in varying degrees of disbelief and horror, and Mordred gestures as if to say, _‘I told you so.’_

“You’re not, under any circumstances, ever, going to do something like that again,” Arthur presses out when he finally finds his voice. “I don’t care about the bond or if you know with unwavering certainty that you’re immortal. I will find a way to kill you myself if you so much as _think_ about doing anything so stupid _ever_ again.”

Merlin opens his mouth as if to protest, but he must be finding something in Arthur’s expression, and ducks his head. “To be fair, I _did_ save a lot of lives,” he adds after a beat because he clearly can’t help himself.

Arthur doesn’t know if he wants to throttle him in frustration or lock him away in their chambers until he can be sure that nothing will ever happen to him again.

Gwen’s just tugging non-too-gently at Merlin’s ear, a gesture she must’ve picked up from Hunith, when there’s a knock on the door and Elyan and Gwaine step inside.

Taking in the shaken expressions they’re probably all still wearing, Gwaine raises his brows in question, but Merlin merely shakes his head. “What is it?”

“A messenger just arrived, but he’s insisting that he will only speak to both of you,” Elyan says, glancing between Merlin and Arthur. “He didn’t say where he’s coming from, but that it’s of the utmost importance.”

Merlin’s obviously all too ready to escape the room because he instantly gets up from the bench. Arthur makes a mental note to bring the whole thing up again when they’re alone because he doesn’t feel like this is something he should just disregard, but follows suit.

Maybe focusing on something else, for the time being, will actually lessen the acute trepidation still pulsing underneath his skin, both related to the veil and the issue with the bond.

After saying their goodbyes to Gaius, Gwen, and Mordred, they follow Elyan and Gwaine into the direction of the throne room.

“Did he give you a name?” Merlin asks as they reach the double doors, and Arthur marvels once again at how the very air around him seems to shift. His shoulders straighten and his chin raises the slightest amount, and suddenly he’s not just Merlin anymore, but someone who’s radiating power.

Arthur’s seen kings who struggle more with displaying authority this effortlessly, and he never gets tired of observing the change in Merlin.

“He said his name is Osgar and that he’s coming in peace,” Elyan says, his expression telling them both that he’s not sure if he believes it. “We checked him for weapons, but he doesn’t have any on him. That doesn’t have to mean anything, of course.”

Arthur nods, squeezing Merlin’s hand briefly. “Let’s hope it’s not another minor complaint about new neighbours doing terrible feats of magic by making the crops water themselves,” he mutters, smiling when Merlin snorts.

As much as magic is slowly but visibly returning to Camelot, there’s the occasional case of wrongful accusations or apprehensive citizens. Of course, it could be going much, much worse, but it’s still tedious to deal with.

The guards open the doors for them, and Elyan and Gwaine fall into step at their sides as they enter.

The man that’s standing in the middle of the room appears harmless on the first glance. He’s wearing a simple cloak, and his shoulders are slightly bowed with age while he doesn’t seem to have any possessions on him.

He turns as they enter and inclines his head, several seconds longer towards Merlin than to Arthur.

He’s got used to that kind of slight by now and mostly gets amusement from the obvious discomfort Merlin fails to hide every single time.

“My Lord, Your Majesty,” the man greets, straightening up and folding his hands in front of himself. “My name is Osgar. I’ve come to deliver a message.”

Merlin glances at Arthur out of the corner of his eye, and he gives a minuscule nod in response.

Someone with magic, then. 

“From whom?” Merlin asks, his head tilted slightly, and Arthur can read the alertness in every line of his body.

“I am sent by the sacred Disir, to proclaim a summon to Arthur Pendragon, the Once and Future King, and Emrys, magic itself,” Oscar says, a faint smile playing around his lips. He reaches into his pocket and Arthur’s hand twitches, but he forces himself to not reach for his sword.

Merlin’s gone rigid next to him, and he sucks in a sharp breath. “A summon? Not a judgement?” he asks, and the tone of his voice only strengthens Arthur’s impression that this is serious even though he’s never heard the name before.

Osgar inclines his head and stretches out his hand towards Merlin, holding what looks like a large coin with imprints on one side. “Indeed, Emrys.”

“Very well,” Merlin says, taking the mark carefully as if expecting to be burnt. “Thank you. Do you intend to stay in Camelot for a while?”

“No, my Lord, but thank you for the offer.”

“Thank you,” Arthur says, feeling very much like it wouldn’t make a difference if he’s here or not.

Merlin doesn’t wait for Osgar to leave, simply grabs Arthur’s sleeve and starts dragging him out of the room while completely ignoring Gwaine’s call for an explanation.

Arthur can relate, but Merlin is wearing that tight, worried expression that usually means it wouldn’t be a good idea to try stopping him. Gwaine will just have to wait a little longer.

As soon as they reach their chambers and the door is locked behind them, he grabs Merlin by the shoulders until he looks at Arthur. “What’s going on?” he asks, failing to fully hide his impatience.

It doesn’t help that Merlin grimaces and sighs, walking over to the desk and slumping into a chair with the mark still clenched tightly in his hand. “The Disir are the highest court of the Old Religion, said to be the voice of the Triple Goddess herself. Usually, they only ever take up contact to mortals to pass judgement—a sign that you’ve angered the goddess and that your final sentence is about to be spoken. Or worse, has been already.”

It takes a moment for the words to sink in, and Arthur’s not sure if he wants to laugh or insist that it must be nothing more than superstition. It’s been a while since he’s clung to denial though, and he silently takes a seat across from Merlin. “He said it’s not judgement but a summon, right?”

Merlin nods, inspecting the runes one the piece of bronze. “Yes,” he murmurs, then visibly shakes himself. “I have no idea what it means, but it’s definitely not something to be taken lightly. We should leave as soon as we can.”

“Alright,” Arthur says, glad that there’s at least something they can _do_. “We have some time before the preparations for the meeting with the other kingdoms start to get busy, and I could do with a trip out of the castle before that particular madness begins.”

It’s a poor attempt to dispel the tension, but he still didn’t expect Merlin’s jaw to clench, his eyes angry as they settle on Arthur. “This is not a _joke_. When the Disir pass judgement, it is final—fate, not destiny, _unavoidable_. If we—“

“ _Mer_ lin,” he interrupts, sliding out of his chair and kneeling in front of him, taking his hands into his own. “I know. I’m not taking this lightly. I might have, in the past, but I trust you. It’s going to be alright, okay? We’ve done so much for this kingdom in the last few months, and it’s not a judgement yet. Who knows what this is about?”

Truth be told, between the revelations from earlier today and this, Arthur’s struggling to process anything at all. He doesn’t think it would be of any help to worry before they have a reason to though, and presses a kiss to Merlin’s knuckles.

Merlin sighs, bowing his head. “You’re right, I’m sorry. I’m just—“

“Stressed?” Arthur offers when he doesn’t go on, getting to his feet and tugging Merlin along with him.

“Something like that,” Merlin murmurs, keeping Arthur from moving away by wrapping his arms around his waist. “I thought it would get easier, now that the ban is lifted. Instead, we’re going to be overrun by other kingdoms wanting to see what’s happening and revising treaties, Mordred and Gaius drop— _that—_ on us, and now the goddess summons us through her lackeys. I could use a vacation.”

“It’s like you’ve never spent a day at court before,” Arthur teases, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Come on, we can wave down a servant to inform the knights that we’re leaving at first light and—“

“We can’t turn up there with an entourage of knights, Arthur,” Merlin interrupts, his voice somewhere between exasperated and fond. “It’s a sacred place of the Old Religion; not only would it be in violation of our own laws, but it would convey the wrong message about our intentions.”

Arthur sighs. “Where do we have to go anyway?”

“The Disir are said to be found beyond the White Mountains, at the Grove of Brineved where the Old Religion is at its strongest,” Merlin says, flicking Arthur’s forehead. “It’s only a day’s ride. We’ll be fine without the knights.”

It’s not that Arthur doesn’t believe him; strange as it is, he’s got used to the idea of Merlin actually being able to defend himself. It doesn’t mean that he thinks either of them infallible though. “Be that as it may, I’m still the King, _Mer_ lin, and Leon at the very least will be insufferable about it. Not to mention that you’d be the next in line even with how things are standing.”

Merlin merely rolls his eyes. “Never bothered you when it was just the two of us going off on one quest or another even before you knew about my magic.”

He’s helpless against the twitching of his lips and knows that Merlin catches the movement. Tugging him against his side once more, Arthur presses his face into his hair. “Alright then, just the two of us. But you’re going to tell Leon.”

The answering huff of laughter tickles his neck, and Arthur wishes he could simply keep them here—far away from court and prophecies and divine intervention.

“I have to talk to Kilgharrah before we’re leaving, so I’m afraid I’ll have to pass,” Merlin says. “Unless you want to accompany me?”

Right. And far away from dragons too, with the exception of Aithusa maybe, not that he’ll ever admit it.

“I’ll talk to Leon,” he grumbles, perfectly aware that Merlin did it on purpose.

* * *

When they step into the courtyard the next morning, their packed bags floating along behind them, Arthur’s less surprised than he probably should be to find Mordred and Gwaine waiting next to the stables.

Merlin groans next to him, followed by a glare at Arthur when he doesn’t bother biting back his snort.

“What are you doing here?” Merlin asks when they reach them, though he does offer a quick word of thanks to the stable boy handing over the two horses.

Mordred crosses his arms over his chest, barely sparing a glance for Arthur, while Gwaine just grins.

“I was dragged along and decided to stay for the show,” Gwaine says, pointing at Mordred.

“It’s a stupid idea to go alone,” Mordred says, his tone flat, and Merlin rolls his eyes heavenwards.

“You know what I find truly astounding?” Merlin asks, his tone deliberately light. “How you can be perfectly aware of my abilities—arguably more so than nearly anyone else in this castle—and still end up worrying the most.”

“Yes, but I’m also aware that you’re reckless, self-sacrificing to a ridiculous degree, and without any regard whatsoever for your own life,” Mordred shoots back dryly, and Arthur has to smother a laugh in his sleeve.

“You’re not coming,” Merlin says with a shake of his head, mounting his horse. “If something happened, I’d be more distracted looking after you anyway, so consider it a measure of caution.”

Mordred opens his mouth, clearly ready to argue for however long it would take to wear Merlin down, but Arthur decides that it might be smart to cut this short before it gets out of hand.

“We’ll be fine,” he says, raising a hand when Mordred turns his scowl on him. “I appreciate your concern and believe me, I agree with you on most points, but I’ve already told Leon to send a search party after us if we’re not back within three days.”

Merlin turns in his saddle to raise a disbelieving brow at him, but Arthur merely shrugs before mounting Hengroen. “It was the only way to keep him from discussing it to death,” he says with a pointed look at Mordred.

“Aren’t you bothered by this?” Mordred exclaims with a huff, turning towards Gwaine.

To his credit, Gwaine merely grins and claps him on the shoulder. “Have some trust, it’s not the first time they’re leaving the castle on their own. Once you’re a knight, your chances will heighten by around twenty per cent but —“

“Wait, what?” Merlin interrupts, sitting up straighter and having to keep Llamrei from dancing around at the sudden shift of weight. “You’re _not_ going to put him into chainmail and let him play war, he’s barely off age!”

“Emrys—“

“Whose idea was this?” Merlin goes on, completely ignoring Mordred in favour of turning towards Arthur with a disapproving frown.

Raising his hands, Arthur shakes his head. “He asked what I thought about building up a group of knights who are skilled in both sword fighting and magic. I thought you’ve talked about it.”

Merlin groans, his head dropping before he straightens again. “We’re going to talk about this when I’m back,” he directs at Mordred, then urges his horse into a trot, clearly expecting Arthur to follow.

“I’m sure he’ll get used to the idea,” he offers Mordred before doing exactly that, easily catching up with Merlin.

“Why would you mind so much if Mordred joined the knights?” he asks after they’ve left the citadel behind, glancing at Merlin out of the corner of his eye.

Merlin hums, running a hand through his hair. “He’s still so young, and I just—“ he breaks off with a frustrated noise, his jaw working. “When we retook Camelot from Morgana, he got drawn into the whole mess, but it was obvious that it wasn’t easy on him. And he lost control when he saw me hurt. Don’t get me wrong, it probably saved a lot of lives, but I feel like it would be better to keep him out of all the fighting for a while longer.”

“He’s not much younger than you were when you came to Camelot,” Arthur says, though he can see the logic in Merlin’s reasoning. Maybe it’s that he’s not used to Merlin being protective in this manner, but his gut is telling him that there’s more to it.

“And I was more than a little overwhelmed with the things that were thrust upon me,” Merlin answers dryly, offering him a small grin. “You’re not an easy man to keep safe.”

Arthur laughs, and some of the weight that’s always resting on his shoulders within Camelot’s walls melts away. “You have a point there.”

He decides to let the topic rest for now, and while it takes Merlin a while to get out of his contemplative mood, it clearly does him just as much good to be out of the castle.

They don’t run into any trouble on their journey, most likely helped by Merlin redirecting them once or twice, and they reach the grove of Brineved in the late afternoon.

“Let’s eat something before we go in there,” Merlin says, eyeing the entrance to the cave with mistrust.

Arthur stops unpacking his bags to wrap an arm around Merlin’s shoulders, hugging him close. “It will be alright,” he says for what has to be the hundredth time since Osgar delivered the summon. “If you keep worrying this much, you’ll get grey hair before you reach thirty summers.”

Merlin snorts, pressing his nose into Arthur’s neck. “I’d blame you entirely for that.”

“Likewise,” Arthur shoots back, shoving Merlin slightly and turning back to his horse.

Still, their meal is tense. There’s a frown etched between Merlin’s brows like it’s trying to become a permanent fixture, and they both barely touch their food.

“Come on then,” Arthur finally says when it becomes obvious that they should just get this over with, getting to his feet and sheathing his sword.

“You can’t take your sword with you,” Merlin stops him, a hand on his arm. “As I said, sacred; it would be an insult.”

Arthur sighs but rids himself of his sword, raising his brows at Merlin. “Better?”

A sharp nod is his only response, and they finally make their way into the cave. The ceiling’s low and there are relics and bundles of herbs adorning the walls. It opens up into a small chamber with a pool of water in the centre, and three hooded women standing on a pedestal behind it.

Merlin bows and Arthur follows the gesture though he suspects that it comes out rather stiff. The whole atmosphere is oppressive, and Merlin’s words about the Disir’s judgement are ringing in his head.

“Arthur Pendragon, Emrys,” the three women speak as one, and there’s something to their voices that sends a shiver down Arthur’s spine. “You’ve followed our summon.”

“We have,” Merlin says, his voice calm, and for once Arthur’s more than happy to let him take the lead. “We thank you for your invitation, though I will admit that I’m curious about the reason behind it.”

“Of course you are.”

“We have an offer from the goddess.”

“A possible reward.”

Merlin’s shoulders stiffen the barest amount, but he bows his head again. “What would that offer entail?”

“You both have worked admirably for your kingdom.”

“Rightened many wrongs done by those who came before you.”

“And yet as Camelot flourishes, there remains one threat that holds the potential of her destruction. As there remains one burden you have to carry that’s weighing you down, Emrys.”

Arthur’s fingers itch for a sword that’s not there. Honestly, Kilgharrah’s habit of talking in riddles is nothing compared to this.

“What are you speaking of?” Merlin asks, and Arthur can hear the growing impatience in his tone as well.

“The High Priestess.”

“Magic is returning to the land, not only to Camelot but to Albion as a whole.”

“And yet she remains on her path of destruction.”

 _Of course_ it would be Morgana, Arthur should’ve known. And it’s not as if he never thought about her in the last few months, but he tried to ignore it as best as he could, hoping that all the changes they were implementing might at least move her to stop her attacks on and plotting against his people.

Apparently, the Disir are not done yet because one of them raises her hand when Merlin attempts to speak.

“That is not all, Emrys.”

“You’ve entered a soul bond that was not foreseen or foretold.”

“A foolish endeavour considering your circumstances, but not that surprising still.”

“Yet it may be your undoing if both of your lives are going to take the course they’re set upon.”

“A being with as much power as you were gifted with can be a great salvation.”

“Or the ultimate doom.”

Something cold seems to twist around Arthur’s ribs, his heart stuttering. It has never occurred to him how dangerous the grief Merlin will have to endure might become when there’s no one left to ground him.

Merlin’s voice is hoarse when he speaks, and Arthur doesn’t need a soul bond to catch on to his agitation. “Morgana and my immortality—what does one have to do with the other? And what do you suggest?”

There’s a pause, and then the Disir speak as one again. “To save Albion, in present and in future, you have but one task. Avert the High Priestess from her path of destruction. In return, you will get a choice—for Emrys to give up his immortality, or for Arthur Pendragon to join him in his wait for when Albion’s need is greatest once more.”

“But know this; the initial prophecies spoke of Arthur’s death, and his eventual rise in the distant future when the land will need her King once more.”

“If you give up your immortality, Arthur will not rise again, and Albion’s future may be lost.”

“If you both choose to wait, you will walk this earth until the time is there and your final task is fulfilled.”

The following silence feels heavier than anything before, and still, Arthur’s ears are ringing so loudly that it leaves him disorientated.

“What happens if we decide to refuse the offer?” Merlin asks, and he sounds like it’s costing him immeasurable strength to get the words past his teeth, his hands clenched at his sides.

“Camelot will fall, and you alone will remain. To walk this earth until your King returns.”

“And how long would that be?” Merlin snaps out, and Arthur finally gives in to the urge to reach out and wrap his fingers around his wrist.

“A century.”

“Maybe more.”

“The future is never set in stone.”

Arthur has to lock his jaw against a harsh burst of laughter at the irony. Instead, he bows his head and tugs at Merlin’s arm. “Thank you,” he adds for good measure, sensing deep in his bones that it wouldn’t go over well to insult them.

“You have until dawn to make your decision.”

He’s not sure if Merlin’s simply too shocked to resist or has the same need to get out of here as Arthur, but he lets himself be dragged along without resistance.

Outside, dusk is settling, and the noises of the forest seem loud after the unnatural stillness of the cave.

They settle down next to each other on one of the bedrolls, and Merlin absently mutters a spell to light the fire. “What do you think?” he asks, leaning his head against Arthur’s shoulder and fiddling with his sleeves.

“Well, technically it’s two choices, isn’t it?” Arthur says, tipping his head back to stare at the barely distinguishable canopy of trees above them.

Truth be told, he’s not sure what he thinks. About the choices that were offered to them, about being ordered into a creepy cave in the middle of nowhere to receive some divine intervention on his life. About getting confronted with all the most uncomfortable truths that he’d really rather avoid thinking about.

Merlin hums. “I don’t like it.”

A soft snort escapes Arthur, and he wraps an arm around Merlin’s waist. “I don’t think that matters very much to them.”

“Sometimes, the Old Religion really isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be,” Merlin grumbles, then sighs and straightens up. “Still, it does make sense that we should take care of Morgana one way or another. As far as I know, she’s still trying to mobilise support even though it’s not going very well.”

Arthur drops his head and massages his temples, resigning himself to finally confront this. “I know. So, we’re going to agree on that part of the offer—any ideas?”

“A few?” Merlin says, giving a wry smile when Arthur raises his brows at him. “It’s not exactly easy to forget about her, is it?”

“I sure wish it was,” Arthur mutters, but forces himself to push the reluctance away, the part of himself that still, foolishly, clings to the hope that he won’t have to confront her in his capacity as King instead of brother. “You’re right though. What about—the rest?”

Merlin’s expression instantly shutters, and he turns his head away, poking at the flames. “Either I’ll become mortal, or you’ll become immortal. How’s that even a question?”

And yes, Arthur can see where he’s coming from, knows that the reasonable response shouldn’t even be up for debate. But there’s a buzzing in the place right underneath his heart, curling through his chest and spreading into his veins, and maybe the answer isn’t nearly as simple.

“Do you ever…” he starts, weighing his words carefully as he studies the ground in front of him. “Have you never had the feeling that we are meant for something more? Something that goes beyond Camelot, beyond Albion even. That there’s _something—_ something that you and I are meant to do for which one lifetime could never be enough?”

He’s not sure where the words are coming from, isn’t even sure if it’s not something that has only appeared twenty minutes ago in the blasted cave. But the truth of it is singing in his blood and sparking at his fingertips as if it has always belonged to him, unshakable like the walls of the castle he’s grown up in.

Merlin’s silent, but Arthur can feel the tension pouring off of him in waves, and he finally glances up to reach out and link their hands together. “It wouldn’t be the same,” he says quietly, tugging until Merlin looks at him. “You wouldn’t be alone. And I wouldn’t be either.”

A hoarse laugh breaks out of Merlin, and his eyes are bright as he stares at Arthur. “Don’t you think that you’re going to get sick of me?”

Arthur smirks, tilting his head. “I got sick of you the second I laid eyes on you in the marketplace, _Mer_ lin. Yet here we are.”

“ _A century_ ,” Merlin whispers. “A century. Maybe more. That’s madness, Arthur.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s not going to change anytime soon,” Arthur says, but his voice comes out choked and his heart is pounding in his chest at the future suddenly stretching out in front of them. “I always wanted to leave Camelot with you.”

“Madness,” Merlin repeats, his fingers constricting until his nails are digging into Arthur’s skin.

Taking a deep breath, Arthur briefly closes his eyes and squeezes Merlin’s hand back. “I can’t watch you die any more than you could watch it happen to me, Merlin. Not again,” he presses out, bowing his head. “I know it’s insane, and obviously I’d never force you or resent you for refusing but—but I think I could do it. As long as I don’t have to do it without you.”

Merlin pulls his hand out of his, and for the fraction of a second, Arthur’s heart sinks. Then Merlin’s in front of him, fingers pressing against Arthur’s jaw and his lips hard and bruising against his own.

“You’re insane,” Merlin chokes out into that minuscule space between them, barely-there until he’s kissing him again, and Arthur can taste salt. “Absolutely mental, I hope you know that.”

Arthur laughs into the kiss, wrapping his arms around Merlin’s waist and pulling him closer. “Is that your answer?” he manages to get out, and he smiles softly when Merlin leans their foreheads together.

“So help me the goddess, Arthur,” Merlin says, his eyes closed. “I— _yes_. Let’s sleep on it and make the final decision tomorrow but—but if you really want to do this—yes. Anything as long as it’s with you,” he vows, and Arthur shivers under the intensity of the words.

“Don’t do it only for my sake,” he says, pressing his thumb against Merlin’s bottom lip to stall his protest. “I mean it, if you’re still hating the idea, then we won’t do it. It’s a huge decision.”

Merlin exhales in a rush, brushing his lips against Arthur’s forehead before meeting his eyes. “As I’ve said several times now, it’s utter madness. But the idea of spending a hundred lifetimes with you without ever fearing to lose you is also brilliant. Brilliantly insane, but I don’t know how I ever expected anything else from being with you.”

He’s smiling when he’s done with his speech, and Arthur’s throat closes up with all the affection that’s surging up in his chest, threatening to unravel the last, frail remains of his composure.

“Alright,” he whispers, brushing their lips together. “Alright, I just want you to be happy.”

“Sap,” Merlin says, but his own voice is hoarse and there are tears shining in his eyes.

“You’re one to talk.”

* * *

Arthur wakes up to fingers carding through his hair, and when he looks up at Merlin, his eyes are closed and his cheeks dimpled with a small, content smile.

Burying his head in Merlin’s chest once more, he allows himself a moment to forget about everything else, giving in to the sensation of Merlin’s fingers against his skin.

 _‘You seem happy,’_ he says through their link, and he’s still not over how very useful this is for a myriad of reasons.

Merlin hums, his hand coming to rest on Arthur’s neck. _‘Can you feel it? The forest, I mean, and how sacred this place is? How full of life?’_

He focuses, trying to gauge what it is that Merlin’s talking about, but there’s nothing but Merlin’s steady heartbeat, the firm bedroll underneath himself, and the chirping of the birds. Shaking his head, he digs his fingers into Merlin’s waist. _‘Already going mad?’_ he teases, grinning to himself when Merlin huffs.

 _‘Clotpole. Close your eyes and focus,’_ Merlin says quietly, and there’s a reverence to his tone that compels Arthur to do as he’s told.

At first, there’s nothing, but then he starts recognising the trickle of feelings coming from Merlin, a faint awareness beyond himself that’s only ever there when Merlin does it on purpose.

It’s more than usual though; as if his senses are expanding. The air seems to be dancing around him, the ground vibrating with what he—somehow, intrinsically—just knows to be life itself. As if he can feel the age of the trees around them, the buzzing of the countless animals in the forest, and the magic that’s threaded through it all.

 _‘It’s beautiful,’_ he somehow gets out, uncaring of how awed he sounds. _‘Can you feel all this, all the time?’_

The sensation recedes though some of it stays, and Merlin starts carding his fingers through his hair again. _‘It’s stronger here than usual, and I’ve become more aware of it since I don’t have to suppress my magic so much anymore.’_

Arthur lifts his head and kisses him. _‘I’m sorry,’_ he says, knowing that he doesn’t have to spell out all the things he’s referring to. _‘And thank you for showing me.’_

Merlin’s smile is bright and brilliant, his eyes shining as he looks up at Arthur, and it only strengthens what he already knows; he could wake up to this for a thousand years, and never get tired of it.

The thought isn’t nearly as frightening as it once was, but he still pushes himself into a sitting position. “Come on, let’s have breakfast. Who knows how strict they are with their definition of ‘at dawn.’”

“Are you still sure that you want to do this?” Merlin asks when they’ve shared their bread and dried meat between them, and there’s worry lingering in his eyes that Arthur wants to vanish for good.

“Yes,” he says, putting as much conviction into the single word as humanely possible. “If you really want to do this, then I do too. As long as you’re not only agreeing for my sake, or out of some self-sacrificing notion to save me.”

“You sound like Mordred,” Merlin says, rolling his eyes, but it’s followed by a softer smile. “Let’s ruin each other’s lives for the next century, shall we?”

Arthur laughs, jumping to his feet and offering Merlin a hand. “Bold of you to assume that it’s not just going to be me, pestering you to your impossible death.”

Merlin’s eyes narrow, and he smirks. “We’ll see about that.”

Right, maybe it wasn’t his best idea to issue a challenge like this. Then again, they’ll have to keep things interesting somehow.

The playful mood vanishes as soon as they step into the cave as if the warmth and contentment don’t have a place inside here. Arthur wonders how awful it must be to receive a judgement instead of an offer.

“You’ve come to a decision,” the Disir speak as soon as he and Merlin come to a halt in front of them, and Arthur squeezes Merlin’s hand.

“We have,” Merlin says, bowing his head. “We’d like to express our gratitude for the offer. We accept.”

“Very well.”

“And the second part of the bargain?”

“Have you decided which path you want to walk?”

Arthur inhales a deep breath, focusing on the sense of rightness still pulsing in his chest and ignoring the niggling voice of doubt that sounds suspiciously like his father. “I will join Merlin in his wait,” he says, drawing his shoulders back.

“So be it,” they say, raising their staffs and slamming them against the ground with a thud that whips through the cave, echoing from the walls.

Tendrils of silver and gold rise from the pool of water, so bright they’re nearly blinding as they wrap around Arthur, and he’d probably tense if they didn’t bring such a sense of peace with them. It reminds him of Merlin’s magic, and he lets the feeling wash over him until it recedes.

“It is done,” the Disir speak, and Arthur has to shake himself to get rid of the haze in his mind.

Merlin’s watching him with worry etched into every line of his face, and Arthur rolls his eyes. “I’m fine.”

Imitating the gesture, Merlin nods, turning back to the Disir. “Thank you. If you will allow me the question—what happens if we fail?”

And yeah, Arthur should’ve probably thought of that himself, though considering that one does not become immortal every day, it’s probably alright to allow himself some leniency.

“You will not.”

“But if it were to happen, or if you were to decide to ignore your end of the agreement—"

“—The King will lose his gift, and your lives will take their foretold paths.”

Right, that’s not much pressure at all. Inclining his head when Merlin nudges him, Arthur offers his gratitude before Merlin drags him out of the cave.

“Charming,” he mutters as soon as there’s sun on his face again, grinning when Merlin snorts in response. “Hope we’ll never have to deal with them again.”

Merlin hums, knocking their shoulders together. “Not if we take care of Morgana, and as it seems, we have the goddess’ blessing. Or whatever. Better odds than ever, I’d say.”

There’s something thrilling singing in Arthur’s blood despite the severity of their task, and he throws an arm around Merlin’s shoulders. “Sounds like child’s play, considering we can’t die, doesn’t it?”

“You’re going to be insufferable, reckless, and absolutely idiotic about this, aren’t you?” Merlin asks with a long-suffering sigh, but there’s a lightness to his grin that Arthur hasn’t seen in so long, he’s nearly forgotten how it looks like.

If there had been any doubt about their decision, this alone would’ve dispelled them.

“Not any more than you, I’d assume.”

Merlin grimaces, but he leans more of his weight against Arthur’s side. For a while, they just stand in the clearing, soaking in the sun.

Eventually, Merlin straightens, turning to look at Arthur. “We should be careful with who we’re telling about this, especially because only very few are aware of my immortality in the first place. We’ll have to come up with something to get around the whole issue of how your people will want to bury you at some point, and—“

“ _Mer_ lin,” Arthur interrupts, his lips twitching. “I have no intention to scream it from the rooftops, but let’s worry about one thing at a time, alright?”

Merlin offers him a sheepish grin, then waves his hand to make their camp pack itself up. “You’re right. Let’s go home first, and we can think on the way who we’re going to involve in the plans for dealing with Morgana. We still have some time to at least start before the envoys of the other kingdoms arrive. I’d rather not put it off.”

The way he’s saying it, it nearly sounds easy. To be fair though, Arthur feels like they could take the whole world on right now, and he’s unable to wipe off his grin for the whole journey back to Camelot.

* * *

A few days later finds them in Merlin’s chambers, a spell securing that they won’t be overheard. The decision of who to involve was an easy one, though Arthur thinks the actual struggle will be to agree on the actual approach.

Even with the size of Merlin’s workshop, it’s close to being crowded. All the knights of the original round table are here, as well as Mordred, Gwen, and Gaius.

“Am I right to assume that this is related to your summon by the Disir?” Gaius asks, effectively shutting down the ongoing chatter.

He and Merlin have been tight-lipped about their trip despite the more or less insistent questions from all of them, and the prospect of finally finding out what they were summoned for clearly catches their attention. 

“Mostly, yes,” Merlin says from where he’s sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace, Aithusa draped over his lap and Taranis on his shoulder. “They made us an offer if you want to call it that. I’d rather call it blackmail but, you know, details.”

Arthur snorts, but it’s not like he disagrees. “To make it short, we had to make a choice, or two, actually. Morgana is still posing a threat to Camelot and Albion, apparently severe enough to deserve the attention of the goddess herself. We were tasked to assure that she won’t be successful.”

Silence follows his words, and he carefully catalogues all their reactions. His knights have straightened at Morgana’s name, while Gaius and Gwen are wearing similar expressions of wariness and nearly perfectly hidden grief. Arthur can relate.

Mordred’s staring at Merlin though, his lips twisted and his brows furrowed. The reaction is at odds with how little he knew Morgana and how long it’s been since their encounter took place.

Merlin has been reluctant to involve Mordred at all, and Arthur wonders if there’s more to it than Merlin’s general protectiveness.

“You said there were two choices,” Lancelot says, his eyes calculating as he glances between Arthur and Merlin. “And you spoke of an offer. It sounds more like an order, up until now.”

Maybe his father had a point in only hiring nobles as knights; they do ask less uncomfortable questions. Seeing that they decided to reveal most of what the Disir told them, Arthur doesn’t have an actual reason to complain though.

“Dependent on our agreement, we were presented with a choice,” Arthur starts, eyes flicking to Merlin, who merely gives a small nod. “Either Merlin could give up his immortality at the cost of Albion’s distant future, or I would be allowed to join him in his wait.”

Another stunned silence follows, and it’s Gwen who recovers first. “You didn’t,” she says, staring at Arthur with narrowed eyes. “Tell me you didn’t.”

It’s not exactly the reaction he expected, and he tilts his head. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Leon groans, bowing his head to bury his face in his hands, while Gwaine bursts out in laughter, crossing the room to clap him on the shoulder.

“Well, Sire, I truly hope that you have a plan to eventually explain your longevity to the council and the kingdom,” Gaius says dryly, but there’s an amused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Otherwise, I do not see an issue with this. It will certainly spare me a lot of stress.”

“You’re going to kill each other,” Gwen says flatly, her arms crossed over her chest as she looks from him to Merlin. “I give you a few decades, and you’ll hunt each other for sport because you’re getting bored.”

It’s only then that Arthur catches the amused glint in her eyes, and he grins at her.

“What got you to make the decision?” Mordred asks, mustering Arthur curiously, and even though it’s a valid question, Arthur winces.

As much as he agrees with Merlin’s reasoning for why it would’ve been a bad idea to not tell any of them, he’s not going to reveal what, exactly, made him choose as he did.

“Apparently, I was supposed to rise from the dead when Albion’s need was going to be greatest,” he says, not bothering to hide his lasting disbelief at that particular piece of information. “That was not going to happen if Merlin had given up his own immortality. We both would’ve died a natural death, and there’s no way to tell what would happen to the land in that supposed future.”

“ _Duty_ ; how very noble of you,” Gwaine huffs, but when Arthur meets his eyes, they’re way too knowing for comfort.

Merlin obviously catches on to his uneasiness and clears his throat. “Yes, it’s all very interesting, but let’s talk about Morgana. Otherwise, this whole conversation is pointless anyway.”

“What are you thinking of?” Elyan asks, a crease between his brows. “She’s not exactly easy to kill, especially not for us knights.”

“And _when_ were you thinking? The other kingdoms will arrive in a week, and I fear that trying to search her out beforehand might be more dangerous than making sure that she can’t get into the castle during the visits,” Leon adds, his fingers tapping against the hilt of his sword.

Exchanging another glance with Merlin, Arthur straightens his shoulders, letting his eyes wander through the room. “We agree on the timing, it’s definitely better to wait. But we were thinking less about trying to kill her, to be honest.”

Truth be told, no matter how much destruction Morgana has wrought on all of them, the mere idea of having to murder his sister in cold blood turns Arthur’s stomach.

It takes them until long past sundown to explain their idea, to come up with a more concrete plan, and to sort out who’s going to be actively involved.

Arthur’s not surprised that Merlin alone needs an hour of convincing to not run into the whole thing on his own, and it doesn’t go much better with anyone else in the room, except for Gaius.

Still, in the end, they have the first solid boulders of a plan, and Arthur has a sliver of hope that it might just work out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it! ❤️ I can't believe there's only one chapter left...


	14. I’m a fire and I’ll keep your brittle heart warm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from [Taylor Swift - peace](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HpxX4ZE4KWE)

“I don’t want to get up,” Arthur grumbles, his voice muffled in the crook of Merlin’s neck, and he rolls his eyes while trying to ignore the warmth welling up in his chest.

It was so much easier to drag Arthur out of bed when he wasn’t actually sharing it with him.

Softly tugging at a strand of blonde hair, he waits until Arthur grunts in acknowledgement. “Unfortunately, you are the king, which means that you will have to get up and get ready. It would make a rather poor impression if there’s no one to greet all the envoys that are going to arrive in a few hours.”

“All your magic, and you can’t even buy me five more minutes?” Arthur says with a long-suffering sigh, but he does lift his head to stare down at Merlin. “How are you so awake already?”

He shrugs, tracing the lines of Arthur’s features with his thumb. “I’m used to getting up early.”

Arthur’s eyes narrow, and he simply watches Merlin for long seconds. “You’re nervous,” he finally says, a small smile curling his lips. “Whyever would you be nervous about a bunch of royals arriving in Camelot?”

Merlin stares at him flatly, before flicking his forehead lightly. “Oh, I don’t know, you dollophead. Maybe because whenever Camelot had visitors in the past, someone’s tried to kill you. Or maybe because now I’m not a servant, far beneath anyone’s notice, but your Court Sorcerer. Your Court Sorcerer, who’s made responsible for Camelot’s changes and thus, probably not all that well-liked by the majority of our visitors. Do I need to go on?”

“Ah, but you’re forgetting something,” Arthur says with a smirk, tugging at Merlin’s ear. “For one, any and all assassination attempts would be futile. And then, you’re now basically considered nobility for various reasons, so nobody would dare to openly display their dislike.”

Snorting, he shakes his head. “That’s not nearly as reassuring as you think it is.”

Before Arthur can answer, there’s a chirp from the end of their bed, and the next moment, Aithusa jumps up, effectively squashing their legs underneath the blanket. “ _Mer_ lin! _Ar_ thur! Breakfast!” she says, wings flapping and coming dangerously close to tearing down the bed hangings.

“Very good, sweetheart,” Merlin praises, sitting up to pat her while Arthur huffs beside him.

“You say that every single time she manages a new word. I think you’re merely encouraging her to do whatever she wants to,” he grumbles, but he completely fails to hide his affection. “Not to mention that she’s really getting too big for the bed. Hell, for the castle to be honest.”

Merlin clicks his tongue in disapproval before burying his face in Aithusa’s neck. “Don’t listen to the mean king, he’s just jealous,” he stage-whispers, laughing when Arthur hits him with a pillow in retaliation.

Sighing, he draws back. “Down, Aithusa,” he orders, ignoring the betrayed look he receives before she does as she’s told. “I know you’re right, but I’m wary about leaving her with Kilgharrah. What if something happens to her?” he says, leaning against Arthur’s side.

“Merlin, she’s a _dragon_ , and nearly as big as a horse by now. She’ll be able to take care of herself, you just worry too much.”

He knows that Arthur is right, the point only emphasised when he has to stop the weapon’s rack from crashing over as Aithusa bounds past it to curl up in front of the fireplace.

“I’ll take care of it after the negotiations, alright? Or after we’re done with Morgana—I’d feel better knowing that there are as few threats as possible,” he says, and it’s only partly an excuse to put it off for a while longer.

Arthur sighs, most likely knowing exactly what he’s doing, but he also presses a kiss to Merlin’s temple before getting up. “Just make sure that she doesn’t scare our guests to death. Maybe Alined though, he’d deserve it.”

“I’m still of the opinion that you shouldn’t have let him come,” Merlin grumbles as he gets out of bed as well, grabbing one of Arthur’s tunics to put on. “I swear, if he tries using a love potion on you again, I’m going to turn him into a rat and feed him to Aithusa personally.”

“That’s disgusting,” Arthur says with a grimace, though his lips are twitching. “You really shouldn’t torture your poor dragon with low-level food.”

“Breakfast!” Aithusa pipes up, nodding her head up and down, and Merlin’s helpless against the laughter bubbling up in his chest.

Arthur’s grinning, the pleased, self-satisfied one that always makes him look like he’s twenty again, mischief dancing in his eyes and the lines around his mouth softening. “See? She agrees with me.”

Merlin merely shakes his head and crosses the room to let in the servant when there’s a knock on the door.

The tension with which he woke up has lessened though, and maybe they’re really going to get through the whole week without any great disasters.

* * *

Midday finds them standing on the steps of the castle, waiting for the first delegation to arrive.

Despite Merlin’s protests, Arthur insisted that he takes the place directly next to him, arguing that it would send the wrong signal to the magical population of Camelot if it appeared like they weren’t acknowledging Merlin’s rightful place as Arthur’s husband.

Merlin thinks it’s rather underhanded that Arthur’s using his own traditions against him. Unfortunately, he can’t deny the warmth that’s washing over him whenever Arthur so openly shows his acceptance of it, all serious eyes and affectionate teasing.

He doesn’t even want to start on the overwhelming surge of emotions any time he so much as thinks about the words _husband_ and _Arthur_ in the same sentence.

Still, he can feel the disapproving stares of the older nobles resting on his back, and he’s once again glad that Arthur has already replaced a good number of them on the council.

Those who live in Camelot are still present for the reception of the envoys, but so are the knights, Gwen, and Gaius, and it goes a long way to calm Merlin’s fraying nerves.

It doesn’t matter how many times Arthur has assured him that Camelot has very little to worry about and that all of the kingdoms coming to visit are already allies; this is the first time that a majority of Albion’s kingdoms are coming together since the start of Arthur’s reign. The fact that the repeal of the ban was the catalyst leaves Merlin with a brimming certainty that this could be the start of something great—or of a long-lasting struggle to fulfil their destiny.

He’s shaken out of his thoughts when a murmur runs through the courtyard, and the first entourage moves over the drawbridge.

“Queen Annis,” Arthur greets when the older woman dismounts in one smooth movement, and Merlin follows a step behind as Arthur walks down the stairs. “Welcome to Camelot. I’m glad you could make it.”

Queen Annis returns the bow, smiling faintly. “Thank you for your invitation, King Arthur. Lord Emrys,” she adds, sharp, curious eyes landing on Merlin, and he has to hide his surprise at her knowledge of not only who he is, but of that particular name.

“Your Majesty,” he answers, bowing as well and offering a smile. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

It sets the course for the rest of the afternoon. Regardless of whether Merlin has met the arriving royals before or not, they all greet him as Emrys and treat him with nearly the same courtesy they’re bestowing on Arthur.

Both Bayard and Alined clearly recognise him from his time as a servant, but where Bayard congratulates him without a hint of snideness, Alined hides his sneer more than poorly.

Merlin couldn’t care less, but the overall recognition leaves him wrong-footed. As far as he was aware, the name Emrys was mostly known among the Druids and other followers of the Old Religion. It has spread somewhat since his announcement as Court Sorcerer, but he’s been under the impression that it was limited to the population of Camelot and Ynys Gybi—not Albion’s royalty.

Arthur looks pensive when he mentions it after the last convoy has been shuffled off by servants to their quarters, and the two of them are changing in Arthur’s chambers for the feast tonight.

“Our court knows of the name though,” Arthur says after clearly thinking it over, shrugging and turning away to strip himself of his tunic. “News travel fast, and I’m sure all of them did more than a little research when they heard of the change in policy and the new position.”

It makes sense, but not enough so to vanish the sliver of suspicion that there’s more to it.

Glancing at him, Arthur huffs and crosses the distance between them to wrap an arm around Merlin’s shoulders. “If it bothers you so much, I’m sure you can ask the Druids about it when their delegation arrives tomorrow morning.”

Sighing, he leans his head against Arthur’s shoulder and closes his eyes. “You’re probably right. If there’s a reason for it, I’m sure they’re going to let us know soon enough.”

“It’s not like it would be a disadvantage, in any way,” Arthur says, his hand warm and steady on Merlin’s neck. “If they know who you are, it’s only going to strengthen Camelot’s position further.”

He has a point, and after drawing a deep breath to centre himself, Merlin straightens up, pressing a kiss to Arthur’s lips. “Maybe there’s some brain in that thick skull of yours after all.”

* * *

The feast is running without a hitch, although Merlin still can’t shake the awkwardness of sitting at the high table instead of running around and serving wine and food.

There are various means of entertainment throughout the night, and even after months of magic slowly seeping back into Camelot’s daily life, it still leaves him breathless that there are a few magical displays in between.

Arthur smiles softly at him when the show of lights is over, squeezing his hand on the table before turning to talk to Mithian.

“Aren’t you going to show us something as well? I’ve heard your power is unparalleled,” Annis asks from Merlin’s right, and he’s intrigued and wary at the statement in equal measures.

Making sure that it doesn’t show on his face, he inclines his head. “Thank you, Your Majesty. I will, though it is set to take place during the feast at the end of the talks.”

She smiles, and there’s no calculation in her gaze, only amusement. “Easing all of us into it, I see. I’ll be looking forward to it.”

It’s exactly why they had agreed to start off with small, simple tricks, and Merlin can feel his respect for her growing.

 _‘Think it’s going to be alright?’_ Arthur asks him silently when everything is slowly winding down, and Merlin lets his eyes wander through the room once more.

The knights, including Mordred, have already mingled with those of the other kingdoms, while Mithian, Elena, and Gwen are sitting together on one corner of the table and talking quietly.

Bayard, Annis, Rodor, and Godwin are deep in conversation as well, and only Alined is sitting off to the side on his own, a pinched expression on his face.

Leaning back in his chair, Merlin hums under his breath. _‘I suppose so, though I think all of them would wait until tomorrow to voice any problems, and we’ll see how well it goes when the Druids and Alator and Finna arrive. I’m also going to check the wards once more before we go to bed.’_

Arthur’s expression tells him that he’s worrying too much, and maybe he is. But it’s not only him or Arthur who could be attacked if someone has any ill intentions, and Merlin has seen too much over his years in Camelot to take any chances.

* * *

The next morning finds them on the steps of the castle once again, though Merlin is far less nervous about greeting the magical side of their guests.

They’ve all been offered a permanent seat on the council, but while they were all grateful, none of them was in a hurry to accept. Merlin has a strong suspicion that they’re more than happy to let him do that particular part. He can’t blame them for not wanting to give up their lives in favour of spending so much time among nobles of which some are still none too happy about the recent changes though.

Much to Merlin’s relief, they all readily agreed to take part in the negotiations. There’s something comforting in not being the only one with magic among all these royals, regardless of how steadfast the support from Arthur and his friends is.

Contrary to his and Arthur’s plans, their guests unanimously insisted on being part of today’s welcoming committee. It makes Merlin think about their knowledge of him again, and he has to keep himself from fidgeting as they’re waiting.

Finally, they spot the group of riders at the entrance of the courtyard, and he breathes a sigh of relief when he can follow Arthur out of the lines around them.

By the goddess, but he’s so glad when all of this is over.

His relief is short-lived though. Iseldir is accompanied by Ambika and Urias, and Alator and Finna are with them as well—and all of them bow to Merlin first, resulting in low murmurs coming from the group behind them.

Arthur’s lips twitch when he catches sight of Merlin’s grimace. _‘Honestly Merlin, one would think that you’re used to this by now.’_

He sighs to himself. _‘Clotpole.’_

“I’m going to show you to your chambers,” he says out loud, gesturing for the small group to follow. “The talks are set to begin in an hour, but we can get some food from the kitchen if you’re hungry?”

“We’re fine, Emrys,” Iseldir says, a fond smile playing over his face.

Merlin nods, hanging back while they offer their greetings to the other royals. They don’t speak again until they arrive at the designated guest chambers in the North tower, the ones that were traditionally reserved for the magical court members and guests.

“Do you know why all the visiting royals are aware of my name?” he asks when he’s sure that they won’t be overheard, and it probably shouldn’t surprise him that none of them seems shocked.

Ambika pats his arm, her eyes full of amusement. “We can’t know for sure, but I’d assume it has something to do with how the magical population in most of the kingdoms is becoming increasingly vocal over their dissatisfaction with their rulers.”

Merlin frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Well, news of Camelot’s changes and, subsequently, of your appointment as Court Sorcerer have travelled fast, as you know. Many have already left to migrate to Camelot or are planning to do so. Obviously, that’s not in the interest of the respective kings and queens—Camelot is disproportionately stronger with the assistance of magic,” Iseldir explains, and if Merlin didn’t know any better, he’d say that there’s a hint of smugness in his tone.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t really answer his question. “I know, it’s one of the main topics on the agenda for these negotiations,” Merlin says, tilting his head. “What I don’t understand is how they’re seemingly aware of who I am.”

Iseldir inclines his head, and there’s still the shadow of a smirk on his face. “Don’t you think that they would’ve tried to make progress on their own first? There were attempts to get the magical community of their kingdoms—the very same that they’ve suppressed for the last two decades in accordance with Uther’s policies—to negotiate.”

“Of course, it’s glaringly obvious that it’s a move to keep up with Camelot,” Alator goes on. “We’re all aware that Camelot has changed its laws not out of a desire for more power. But as for why the other kingdoms are trying to follow as soon as possible—it’s nothing but a desperate reach for strength and preserving their standing within Albion.”

There’s something heavy sitting in Merlin’s stomach, and he knows what the next words are going to be before Ambika speaks them. “The majority of the magical population across all kingdoms only accepts you, and Arthur as the Once and Future King, as their sovereign. Very few are shy to voice that opinion.”

Hysterically, Merlin’s reminded of how Gwaine likes to joke that he’s the king of the magic people, and he swears to never breathe a word about this to him.

Swallowing, he clears his throat, forcing the sudden burst of panic down. “Do they assume that it was a deliberate move on our part?” he gets out, already running through a myriad of options if that’s the case.

Ambika smiles and squeezes his arm once more. “For the most part, I don’t think so. Gwynned for example has never followed through with the persecution as vigorously as Uther has, and there are advisors with at least enough knowledge to be aware of the prophecy. I think most of them must’ve heard about it in one way or another by now.”

“Our estimation is that their main goal is to assure themselves that the treaties with Camelot are still holding, and to convince you to tell those who want to come to Camelot that there’s no need to leave their kingdoms,” Alator adds, and Merlin has to bite back a hysterical laugh at how calmly they’re all taking this.

He’s not been involved in court for weeks for nothing though, and he forces himself to focus. “Do you think I should? Provided that they’re going to adapt laws about magic close to the ones we’ve installed?”

Iseldir tilts his head, folding his hands in front of him. “You might, but it won’t change that most sorcerers will only accept you and Arthur as the ultimate authority.”

“Do not worry,” Finna says, the first time she speaks, and there’s a soft smile on her face that reminds him of all the hours he’s spent with her back on Ynys Gybi, buried deep in books. “This is but the beginning of uniting Albion. It was always meant to be both you and Arthur who’d accomplish it.”

This, more than anything, finally manages to calm him down, and he exhales a measured breath, consciously letting the tension bleed out of his shoulders. She’s right, of course, but it’s sometimes easy to forget within a kingdom in which most people still view his and Arthur’s positions as vastly different.

“Thank you,” he says, smiling in gratitude. “Is that the stance of the Druids and those back on Ynys Gybi as well?”

All five of them smile at him with a mixture of exasperation and affection, and he once again marvels at how lucky he’s got to find them during his time away.

“Of course it is, Emrys. Most Druid clans have moved into Camelot at this point anyway,” Urias says, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“We’ve always only been loyal to you,” Alator says in that intense manner that he never seems to shake. “And while Ynys Gybi is marked down as a part of Gwynned, it hasn’t been seen as such by its inhabitants for a long time, as you know.”

“It would be nice if it didn’t have to be hidden though, wouldn’t it?” Merlin says softly, still remembering very well how much effort it takes to keep the island supplied with food and other necessities.

“It would,” Alator agrees, his gaze unwavering.

Right. Seems like Merlin has to reconsider how these negotiations are going to go.

“Very well,” he says, already shuffling ideas around and trying to gauge where to find Arthur. “Get settled in, and I’ll see you in the council chambers in an hour.”

* * *

In the end, the whole matter is resolved more easily than he feared.

It becomes obvious—at least once he knows to look for it—that all of the five present kingdoms are desperate to secure their treaties with Camelot. Especially Annis, Bayard, Rodor, and Godwin readily agree to adopt Camelot’s policies on magic, in exchange for the guarantee that Camelot, and the other allied kingdoms, will support them in the case of war.

Alined is clearly reluctant, but Merlin refuses to address his people in any capacity—to stay or to not revolt against the crown—if Deorham doesn’t sign. Combined with the pressure of needing the treaties and Camelot’s alliance due to the trade routes, in particular, Alined still caves remarkably fast.

A bigger issue is the recognition of Arthur and Merlin as the only rightful rulers of Albion, of course. While all of them have apparently heard of the prophecy in one way or another, there’s an unmistakable, lasting suspicion. Even the reassurances from Iseldir, Alator, and the others can’t dispel the wariness, not that Merlin expected differently.

He has enough experience to know how desperately royals cling to their power.

There’s not much he can actually do about it though; it’s not like he has never tried to evade all the responsibility and expectations himself, and he doubts that asking nicely would do the trick.

As much as the belief in their destiny has spread among the magical community over the last year, most sorcerers he’s met are still stubborn. Not to mention that he can’t blame them for refusing to respect the very same people who persecuted them more or less manically for years.

When he and Arthur talk about it the evening before the talks are over, Arthur merely gestures dismissively, an amused smile on his face. “Don’t get me wrong, I understand why it bothers them. But they’ll just have to come to the same conclusion as I—there are people who will always view you more highly, and it’s their right, considering how all of us have treated them for the longest time.”

He has a point, but Merlin still thinks that it’s ridiculous, and makes sure that Arthur trips over his own feet when he smirks at Merlin’s grumbling.

* * *

With most of the issues resolved, the last day is supposed to only entail the official signing of the contracts and the final feast.

Apparently, Alined cannot take being side-lined any better than he could all those years ago. When they’re all still sitting around the round table, the scrolls signed and sealed at the side, he clears his throat, eyes sporting a decidedly cruel glint.

“If you’ll allow me the question,” he drawls, looking between Arthur and Merlin. “Considering that at least those associated with sorcery fall under your jurisdiction, do you plan to do something about that mad sister of yours?”

Merlin instantly tenses, and he can feel Arthur’s annoyance rising as well.

Before either of them can answer, Bayard clears his throat, his eyes serious. “While I disagree that it’s your issue alone, I did hear that she was trying to recruit mercenaries up North. She might still pose a serious threat.”

That particular piece of information is news to them, and they exchange a glance. While Morgana might have difficulties to gather serious support from the magical community, there’s still more than one kingdom at odds with Camelot, easy to notice through the absence of Lot and Odin for example.

“We’re aware that she’s still posing a threat,” Arthur says, inclining his head towards Bayard in gratitude. “We do have every intention to deal with the issue soon.”

“How?” Alined immediately asks with a nasty twist to his lips. “As far as I’m aware, she’s said to be powerful, and has taken Camelot twice already despite the supposed power of your Court Sorcerer.”

Arthur’s eyes narrow, his fingers twitching on the table, and Merlin reaches out to squeeze his leg. “She is not to be underestimated,” he agrees, smiling sharply at Alined. “The success of our plan relies on catching her unaware though, so you will have to forgive us for not sharing any details.”

Before Alined can come up with an answer, the doors to the council chambers burst open, Aithusa storming inside with excited chirps of, “Merlin! Arthur!”

Arthur groans and Merlin has to bite back laughter at how rapidly the other royals jump out of their seats. Panicked shouts of, “ _Dragon_ ,” and “ _Guards_ ,” are flying through the room while the Druids, Camelot’s knights, and Alator and Finna barely react.

“It’s alright!” Merlin calls over the ruckus, turning to Aithusa. “Didn’t I tell you to stay up in my chambers?”

She hangs her head before shaking it. “ _Mer_ lin. Outside, and flying!”

“Excuse me for a moment,” he directs at the room at large, gesturing for her to follow.

 _‘Sorry about that, I think she’s getting restless,’_ he adds for Arthur, only to be met with a wave of amusement.

_‘Are you kidding? What better way to disperse any doubts about our power than having a dragon disrupt a meeting, and getting to reveal that it’s only one of the two my Court Sorcerer is controlling, as the sole remaining Dragonlord?’_

Merlin sighs to himself, shaking his head. _‘You’re way too proud of that, considering that you’ve done nothing for it.’_

 _‘And yet you married me,’_ Arthur shoots back, and Merlin’s just glad that nobody can see his sappy grin.

* * *

It’s a week later that he and Arthur are sitting together over breakfast, though neither of them has really touched their food.

They’re set to leave for their quest of finding Morgana today, and Merlin’s stomach is tied up in knots despite all their careful planning. Arthur doesn’t seem to be much better off.

“It’s going to be alright,” Merlin says, repeating the words they’ve been saying over and over since the envoys of the other kingdoms had left and there was nothing else to distract them anymore.

Arthur hums, tapping his ring against the goblet. There’s a crease between his brows and a twist to his lips, betraying how deep in thought he is. “Do you think Gwaine’s jealous?” he suddenly asks, his eyes snapping up to meet Merlin’s, and the question catches him so much off guard that he stares at him blankly for several seconds.

“What?” he finally manages, shaking his head. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

A sigh, a shift, and then Arthur’s shoulders slump. “I think he’s been avoiding me. At first, I thought it was because of how busy we all were over the last few weeks, but it’s been going on since we got together. And I know that you two had a thing and I mean, I’d get it, I’d be mad too if I lost you to someone else but—“

“Arthur, stop,” Merlin interrupts, not knowing if he should be more exasperated or amused. “Gwaine’s been seeing Percy for weeks now. I’m not going to deny that there might’ve been more from his side than from mine—we never really talked about it, but I knew, and I think he knew that I knew. But I don’t believe that there was ever any doubt about the seriousness of the thing between us.”

“Are you sure?” Arthur asks, and Merlin wants to kiss him with how much affection is rising in his chest at the obvious concern in Arthur’s voice.

“Obviously, I can’t tell for sure, I don’t think he’d tell me. But he seems happy now, so he’s probably just busy with dragging Percy off whenever they have a moment, instead of showering you in attention,” he teases, moving out of the way when Arthur attempts to flick his forehead.

Nodding, Arthur slumps in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face. The silence stretches again, but Merlin can see that there’s still something on Arthur’s mind.

“What are you worrying about now?” he asks, pushing his plate away to cross his arms on the table. “I swear, you’re getting as bad as I am.”

Arthur’s lips twitch in response, and he musters Merlin for long moments. “Are you going to tell me why you’re so reluctant to take Mordred with us?”

Ah yes, he expected that question sooner or later, no matter that he sometimes loathes how well Arthur can read him. And he probably should tell him before they leave anyway, even though the last shreds of his worries lessened to as good as nothing since their visit of the Disir.

“Under one condition,” he says because he might worry more about Arthur than anyone else, but he’s still not going to throw Mordred under the carriage.

Raising his brows, Arthur shakes his head, but he still says, “Alright then, what is it?”

“You’re not going to treat him any differently. You’ll even let him become a knight if he wants to and is good enough.”

“I thought you didn’t want him to become a knight?” Arthur quips, but he seems to catch on to how serious Merlin is, and sighs. “Alright, I promise.”

Merlin nods and takes a moment to think over his words. “There was a prophecy about Mordred and you, saying that he would be the one to kill you. I believed it for the longest time until I stayed with the Druids and learnt that the future is never set in stone.”

Glancing at Arthur, he finds him merely looking curious, a small smile on his face. “That’s why you were so late when I smuggled him out of Camelot.”

He winces but doesn’t bother denying it. At this point, he’s told Arthur nearly everything he has done, except for what he’s forgotten himself, or anything related to Mordred.

“I also nearly got him killed, after that,” he admits quietly, the guilt of it still sitting deep within his bones.

“Gods, Merlin—“

“I know. I _know_ , okay? I never claimed that all my choices were particularly good ones,” he interrupts, twisting his fingers into his sleeves. “Anyway, he was supposed to enter an alliance with Morgana, and they had a weirdly strong bond from the start. I eventually stopped believing it to be inevitable and I’m more than convinced that it wouldn’t happen even if it was still possible to kill you but—“ he trails off and gestures helplessly. “He knows of the prophecy, and I’m worried about how well he’s going to deal with witnessing everything that’s going to go down.”

Arthur’s silent, the frown back between his brows, but he eventually gives a slow nod. “I understand why you’d worry, but have you considered that it might be a conscious choice on his part? He was very insistent to accompany us, and while his main reason might be to not let you face her alone as he said—perhaps he also wants to confront her once more. Reassure himself that destiny can’t _make_ him do anything.”

“Why wouldn’t he tell me, then?” Merlin says, hating how much sense it makes and that it hasn’t occurred to him himself.

“Because you’re constantly worrying about him,” Arthur says, rolling his eyes. “You don’t even want him to become a knight. Don’t get me wrong, I get where you’re coming from—he really is young. But he might’ve been concerned that you’d be even more against him coming along.”

Merlin groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “Stop being so reasonable,” he mutters, but the glare he directs at Arthur is terribly weak.

Getting up, Arthur steps behind him and wraps his arms around Merlin’s shoulders. “You want to keep them all safe, Merlin. It’s nothing bad.”

He thinks of Mordred, and Aithusa, and the rest of his friends. Of how he’d still prefer to do the whole thing with Morgana on his own, or at least only with Arthur, and knows that there’s no use in protesting.

“Come on, we have to get ready if we don’t want to be late to our own quest,” Arthur says after a while, pressing a kiss to his temple before straightening up.

Merlin stays where he is for a few beats, just breathing, and telling himself that it’s all going to be fine.

At least he doesn’t have to worry about Arthur anymore.

Mordred, Gwaine, and Leon are already waiting in the courtyard, talking quietly among themselves, and Merlin greets them with a strained smile before taking Llamrei.

“Lancelot and Gwen will be here in a moment,” Leon says, taking one of the bags Merlin holds out for him. “Do we still need to go beyond the Forest of Ascetir, or has anything changed?”

“I still think that it’s a bad idea for Guinevere to come,” Arthur grumbles from behind him before Merlin can answer, and he rolls his eyes.

He sighs, and despite knowing that it’s useless, says, “She was her friend too, Arthur. It makes sense that she wants a chance to confront her, and considering that we agreed not to—“

“Yes, yes, I know,” Arthur interrupts him. “Doesn’t mean I’m not worrying anyway.”

“You and Lancelot both,” Merlin mutters to himself. It’s not that he _doesn’t_ worry, he just knows which battles to pick. “And yes, as far as I can tell, Morgana’s still using Morgause’s former castle, and Kilgharrah confirmed it last night,” he directs at Leon, who’s doing a poor job at hiding his smile.

Thankfully, he’s saved from debating the composition of their group for the umpteenth time when Lancelot and Gwen join them.

“Let’s go,” Arthur says after they’ve secured the luggage and mounted their horses, and they leave the courtyard in a fast trot.

There’s a tension lying over their group that’s impossible to shake, and none of them talks much as they make their way through the Darkling Woods. Autumn’s on its way but today is still comfortably warm, and they only take a short break around midday to let the horses rest and eat something.

When they finally reach the lake that poses the hidden entrance, they’re all nervous enough for it to rub off on the horses. By now, Merlin’s mentally questioned the wisdom of their plan so many times that there’s a faint headache pounding behind his eyes.

“Right,” Arthur says, breaking the silence. “Everyone knows what they’re supposed to do?”

“You both made us repeat it so many times, I could recite it backwards in my sleep,” Gwaine pipes up, and even though it’s a poor attempt at lifting the mood, Merlin still smiles weakly.

He dismounts, securing Llamrei’s reins on a tree, and waits until Mordred’s followed suit.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Merlin asks him quietly, unable to not offer him one last chance to back out, but all he finds in Mordred’s expression is steely determination.

“I’m not going to let you walk in there on your own. I know you can’t die, and I know that you know what you’re doing. But you only have one chance to get it right and the alternate plan only works if someone’s there to get you out in case it does go wrong after all,” Mordred says, and his smile is infuriatingly patient as he holds out his hand.

Sighing, Merlin takes it. “Stubborn idiot,” he says, then turns towards the others and nods. “Wait for my—“

“We know, Merlin,” Gwen and Arthur say simultaneously, drawing laughter from the rest of the group, and he shrugs his shoulder.

“Better safe than sorry,” he says, not waiting for an answer before transporting himself and Mordred into the courtyard of the castle on the other side of the lake.

It’s empty when they land, and they’re staying still for long, tense seconds. The only downside of the transportation spell is that it’s not inconspicuous by any stretch of the imagination, and as expected, it doesn’t take long until they hear hurried steps echoing from a corridor to their right.

They move quickly to press themselves against the wall next to the doorway, and Merlin calls his magic to his fingertips. The spell to temporarily rob someone of their magic is complicated, and not the kind of magic he uses particularly often.

It’s also outlawed by Camelot’s laws, but then again, Merlin’s never been particularly bothered by the specifics. He and Arthur debated for a while if they could justify the hypocrisy, but considering that it’s the best—if not only—chance they have, short of outright killing Morgana, they eventually decided to take the risk.

He’s stopped from contemplating the ethics of what they’re about to do any further when Morgana hurries into the courtyard.

The spell rolls off his tongue, and Merlin’s just finished the incantation when Morgana whirls around, lifting her hand as soon as she spots them.

The force of his spell makes him stagger, only the wall behind him keeping him from outright stumbling, and he can feel the additional power in the middle of his chest. He wouldn’t be able to use it, but it’s there, pushing against his own as Morgana tries again and again to curse them.

Neither he nor Mordred says anything, watching as the comprehension of what they’ve done sinks in. When she turns to run, Mordred thrusts his hand out, freezing her where she stands.

Another flash of Mordred’s eyes and she’s pushed into the half-crumpled throne standing in the middle of the courtyard, vines appearing to bind her arms and legs. Only then does Mordred lift the immobilisation spell, and Merlin sends up several balls of light to alert the others.

Morgana’s glaring, but there’s fear lingering underneath it, her hands trembling where they’re balled into fists. Merlin’s chest aches with what has become of her. “Are you going to kill me?” she spits, a cruel twist to her lips. “Maybe you’ll actually be successful this time, _Emrys_.”

Merlin doesn’t flinch, doesn’t recoil from the venom in her voice, but he _wishes_. He wishes that things could’ve been different, that it wouldn’t have to end like this. That she could’ve been a part of everything they’re building instead of an obstacle so serious, the Old Religion itself decided to intervene.

It’s so easy to imagine how little change would’ve been required for their places to be reversed.

“Not if I can help it,” he says calmly, and the flash of surprise in her eyes is barely there, but Merlin still notices it.

“Now, that doesn’t sound like you. After all, you were always so very quick to turn on your friends,” she mocks, before turning her eyes on Mordred. “Seems like you’ve found another one like yourself.”

And Merlin can live with the hatred she’s throwing at him, has learnt to live with the knowledge that some of it is justified in more ways than one, but his anger still surges at her attempt to drag Mordred into it.

“It was you who has turned on her friends first, Morgana,” he says, swallowing the fury that’s trying to claw its way up his throat. “I had to choose between you and everyone I love. Not only that—between you and every single person in Camelot. I hate what I had to do to you, but if I had to choose again, I would do it all over in a heartbeat.”

“And I would kill you the second I had the chance,” Morgana snarls, her chin raised defiantly despite her position, and Merlin doesn’t doubt it for a second. “Though as I’ve heard, it doesn’t stick particularly well, does it?”

“What a remarkable observation,” Mordred says flatly before Merlin can answer, and there’s a hardness to his face that Merlin hasn’t seen before. “Especially considering that only about every single person with magic is aware of it.”

Morgana’s eyes flash, and she sneers. “Does your precious king know? Or would that make you too much of a freak to keep you around?”

“I know, Morgana,” Arthur’s voice sounds from behind them, and he steps up next to Merlin, squeezing his hand briefly before straightening up.

Leon, Gwaine, Lancelot, and Gwen are shortly behind him, and Morgana’s eyes widen. Then she throws her head back and _laughs_ , the sound so cruel and cold that it makes the hairs on Merlin’s neck stand up.

“Is that it, then?” she asks, her face twisted into a snarl. “You’ve come to kill me, and the rest is here to watch your final act of betrayal on your own kind? You’ve taken everything from me, after all. My home, my sister, _my own people_ , and now my magic. What more is my life in the whole equation?”

“You only have yourself to blame for the decisions you’ve made,” Gwen speaks up, stepping forward. “There could’ve been another way, but you decided to turn against all of us without ever giving us a chance.”

Morgana stills, and her fingers are twitching where they’re curled around the stone of the throne. Gwen doesn’t waver under her piercing gaze though, her own face set into hard lines and her back straight.

“ _You_ turned on _me_ ,” Morgana finally spits. “I asked you to stay with me, and you betrayed me.”

Gwen shakes her head, her eyes flashing. “After you sided with a sister that came out of nowhere, plotting not only to take your revenge on Uther—something I might not have done myself but could’ve understood—but _innocent people_ , Morgana. What has Arthur ever done to you? Or the civilians you decided to kill?”

“Arthur’s never cared about sorcerers until his bedwarmer turned out to be one,” Morgana instantly shoots back, her eyes flicking over to Arthur and Merlin as if waiting for one of them to rise to the bait.

“He helped to save me,” Mordred says, his voice harsh and unforgiving. “Between the two of us, I think I would’ve had more of a reason to judge him without giving him a chance. Yet I am the one living in Camelot, while you’re still clinging to your hatred that has lost any ground to stand on.”

Morgana’s jaw clenches, and Merlin’s once again overwhelmed by pity. It’s not that he doesn’t understand some of it, that he can’t sympathize with being scared and alone and feeling cheated by the world. How it’s sometimes easier to turn your back on everyone before they’ll get the chance to turn their back on you.

“The throne should be mine,” she finally says, turning her eyes on Arthur once more.

Gwen’s obviously not done though, regardless of how clearly Morgana doesn’t want to speak to her. “And your desire for what, power? It was so big that you would’ve seen me killed, or banished from my home because you thought I might take it from you? You were my _friend_ , Morgana. And you betrayed me first, so don’t you _dare_ twist this story to fit your sorry delusions full of self-pity and self-righteousness.”

Even Merlin’s taken aback at the venom in her words, and the following silence is only broken when Gwen shakes her head, turning away. “I’m done here,” she says, sparing one last glance at Morgana. “I have nothing more to say to you.”

Morgana’s unmoving, her face blank, and Merlin jumps when Gwaine suddenly speaks up. “Not to rain on your parade, but the throne wouldn’t have been yours anyway. You’re not only younger but also an illegitimate child, which negates your claim.”

There’s a collective sigh running through their group, but it snaps Morgana out of it, and she snarls. “Not if I finally kill him.”

And Merlin—Merlin’s _tired_ , and his nerves are on edge, and the pettiness and impossibility to resolve this are wearing on him. Arthur’s face is set into steel at his side, but he can feel the tension and agitation pulsing through their link like he’s shouting it from the rooftops. It’s enough to snap the last remains of his patience.

“You still don’t have a claim. Not anymore,” he says, and he can hear how cold his own voice sounds. “By the laws of the Old Religion, which are now accepted in Camelot, I am the next in line. And as you’ve so kindly pointed out, death doesn’t stick particularly well for me, which means you do not have a chance to become Camelot’s queen. You have barely anything to offer to potential allies, whether those with magic or from the surrounding kingdoms of Camelot, and you have no cause to keep fighting but for your own hatred and bitterness. It’s over, Morgana.”

She stares at him, her lips twisting like she’s itching to test out how well death sticks to him right here, and her voice is low and shaking when she taunts, “So why don’t you just kill me then? As you said, there’s nothing else for me.”

“There could be,” Arthur says, his face giving nothing away. “We’re not here to kill you, but to make you an offer.”

“An offer,” Morgana echoes after a beat, incredulity etched into every line of her face.

“You will get the estate of Tintagel with free reign over the land. You get to keep your magic, your autonomy, and a yearly allowance that will leave you to live a comfortable life until the estate brings in enough on its own,” Arthur says, and there’s a trickle of warmth bleeding into his voice that makes Merlin’s chest ache.

For the first time, Morgana’s mask wavers, obvious shock shining in her eyes. Merlin knows that she must remember that Tintagel was Arthur’s mothers’ home, that she must be aware of the magnitude of meaning behind this offer. And Merlin prays, _prays_ that she’ll have only the tiniest sliver of who she used to be left within herself to not throw it back into Arthur’s face.

Time seems to stretch as her eyes wander over their group, her jaw working. “And in return?” she finally asks, and Merlin doesn’t know if it’s wishful thinking, or if some of the bitterness has left her tone.

Arthur nods, straightening the barest amount. “You will swear an oath on your life and magic to cease any and all conspiration and attacks against Camelot. Neither you nor anyone on your word is to attack the kingdom or any of its citizens or allies. There will be knights living on your estate for the first few years to ensure you adhere to Camelot’s laws, and you’re to treat the people under your care well.”

Merlin watches her closely as the words sink in, and he can see the conflict warring on her face, the search for a loophole she could use. He’s confident that between all of them, they’ve made it as foolproof as humanely possible.

“You know what is said about us,” he says quietly when she hasn’t answered after what feels like minutes. “The prophecies spoke of me as your doom. And I never wanted to, not now and not in the past, but if you _ever_ attack one of those close to me again, with or without this oath, I swear to the goddess, I _will_ kill you without any hesitation.”

The truth of the words rings through the courtyard, and there’s nausea welling up within him at how much he means them; at the fear that’s showing on her face again.

“It’s not an offer,” she finally says, the mocking mask slipping back into place. “It’s blackmail. Whatever would your people say if they knew?”

Arthur smiles, mirthless and cold. “They would thank me for sparing them a queen that would kill them where they stand and burn their crops.”

There’s the faintest wince flashing over her face, and her eyes flick to the side, avoiding to look at any of them.

“Morgana,” Leon suddenly says, stepping forward. “ _Take it_.”

She stares at Leon, and then, finally, she nods. It’s short and sharp, reluctance and anger radiating off of her, but she also says, “Alright,” and an immeasurable weight lifts from Merlin’s shoulders.

“To swear a magical oath, I do need my magic back,” she says with a faint smirk when nobody moves, relief rendering all of them frozen, and it reminds Merlin so much of who she used to be that his throat tightens.

“I’m aware,” he still manages, glad when his voice doesn’t waver. He nods at Arthur who walks over to her, unsheathing his sword and touching it against her neck. His hands don’t shake, his expression like polished marble again, and Merlin knows how much he loathes doing this.

Ignoring the sliver of guilt, he takes a deep breath and meets Morgana’s eyes. “The blade at your neck was forged in a dragon’s breath. I’m sure you’re aware of what that means.”

Her eyes widen again, and she gives the faintest nod in response.

All of them tense when Merlin speaks the spell to release her magic back to her, watching as she stiffens and takes a deep breath.

Her fingers twitch, the vines binding her falling away, and she glances at Arthur. “Will you allow me to stand, or do you want me to grovel in gratitude?”

Arthur doesn’t answer, merely gestures for her to get up, and Merlin crosses the distance between them, holding his hand out.

She hesitates once more, staring at his hand as if it’s going to bite her after all, but then she grasps his wrist in a tight grip, a challenge clear in her eyes.

Merlin meets her gaze steadily and recalls the words he’s remembered better than anything else in his life. “Will you, Morgana Pendragon, swear on your life and magic to cease any and all acts of violence, manipulation, and further attacks against Camelot and Albion, her people and allies, both on your own and the instigation or support of others to do so?”

A huff of breath slips past her lips, and her jaw clenches before she says, “I swear it on my life and magic.”

“Will you adhere to Camelot’s laws on life and magic, and govern the people in your care with responsibility and fairness?”

“I swear it on my life and magic,” she says, the answer falling from her lips more easily.

“So be it,” Merlin says, watching as golden and silver tendrils of magic rise from where their hands are joined, winding around their wrists and flaring brightly before sinking into their skin.

The similarity to the magic of the Disir when they bestowed immortality on Arthur isn’t lost on Merlin, and it brings back their insistence that they would not fail.

He’s pulled out of the memory when Morgana snatches her hand back, instantly taking a step away. “Are you going to accompany me to Tintagel, or am I allowed to move on my own?” she says, and her voice is wavering, her hands shaking where they’re clenching and unclenching at her sides.

“Lancelot, Gwaine, and I are going to accompany you,” Gwen says from behind Merlin, and he whirls around at her words, his heart missing a beat at the surprise of hearing this.

“Are you sure?” Arthur says, at least confirming that he didn’t know about this either.

Lancelot smiles, wrapping an arm around Gwen’s shoulder. “Well, someone has to, and you did say you’d prefer it if one of us were there for the first few months. Gwaine insisted, and Percy will join us once you return to Camelot.”

It’s true, they just hadn’t dared to plan so far ahead. Merlin’s suspecting that Gwen has a hand in this, and the longer he’s thinking about it, the less shocked he is. She’s currently staring at Morgana with a challenge in her eyes as if daring her to say anything about it.

He’s not sure that any of their relationships with Morgana can be salvaged, least of all his own, but he’s wishing desperately that there might be the slightest glimmer of hope.

More of a shock is Gwaine though, and Merlin turns his eyes on him until he looks up. There’s an apology there, and Merlin tilts his head to the side of the courtyard when he hears Arthur, Lancelot, and Gwen start talking about the logistics, with the occasional snide remark from Morgana.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks Gwaine once they’re out of earshot, and the answering smile is sad around the edges.

Gwaine shrugs, staring back at the group around Morgana. “Don’t get me wrong,” he starts, clearly measuring his words. “I’m happy for you and Arthur, and I’m happy with Percy. But I think it will be good for me to have—some time away from it. It will only be for three months before we’re back.”

There’s a lump forming in Merlin’s throat, half sadness for seeing Gwaine go, half guilt for not noticing sooner.

“Stop that,” Gwaine says, shoving him lightly. “It’s not your fault, and I always knew what I was getting myself into. And I really am happy, I just want to make sure that it’s going to stick.”

Merlin’s answering smile is probably on the watery side, but he nods, pulling Gwaine into a hug. “I’m sorry,” he whispers despite Gwaine’s words. “Don’t let her push you around too much, yeah?”

Gwaine laughs and ruffles his hair, his cheerful grin firmly back in place. “You know me.”

When they walk back over to the group, Morgana’s standing off to one side, watching Gwen with a distracted frown on her face, while Arthur’s standing to the other, arms crossed tightly over his chest and his face still so very impenetrable.

Merlin stops next to Leon, leaning close. “Can you and Mordred take Llamrei and Hengroen back to Camelot? Morgana can take one of the other horses.”

Leon raises a brow but nods after mustering Merlin for a moment. “You’re not going to tell me what you’re planning?”

Merlin only smiles. “We won’t be long.”

If that was something he did, Leon would probably roll his eyes. As it is, he merely huffs, squeezing Merlin’s shoulder. “Take care of him.”

Merlin nods, and makes a quick round to say his goodbyes to Gwen and Lancelot, lets Mordred know, and then steps up next to Arthur. ‘ _Come on, let’s get out of here. I want to show you something.’_

A muscle in Arthur’s jaw jumps, but then his shoulders slump, and he raises his brows at Merlin. _‘And where do you plan to go?’_

 _‘It’s a surprise,’_ Merlin says with a smile, holding out his hand for Arthur to take.

The fact that Arthur doesn’t hesitate dispels some of the lingering tightness in Merlin’s chest, though he does spare another glance for Morgana before focusing on the destination in his mind.

They appear on the beach of Ynys Gybi, the wind blowing the smell of sand and salt into their faces and whipping their hair around.

It’s a testament to how surprised Arthur must be that he doesn’t complain about the feeling of the transportation spell. He stares around them in wonder, his gaze lingering on the half-crumpled castle on the cliff behind them.

“This is where I stayed for most of the time I was away from Camelot,” Merlin says softly, pointing towards the huts and tents at the base of the castle. “It’s called Ynys Gybi, or the Holy Island. There’s a myriad of wards and protective charms around it, and it’s been a safe haven for sorcerers for the last twenty years.”

Arthur gives a slow nod, and Merlin watches as the tension slowly flees from his shoulders, the lines of his face softening from king to man. “It’s beautiful.”

“Come on, let’s walk a bit,” he says, taking Arthur’s hand and pulling him along.

They walk in silence for a while, the early autumn sun shining down on them. Merlin’s unable to tear his eyes away from Arthur for long, the way he seems to shine golden in the light, his eyes bright and faintly crinkled at the corners.

“Do you think we did the right thing?” Arthur finally asks, pulling them to a halt, and Merlin sighs.

Mulling over his words, he eventually shrugs. “Considering the circumstances, yes. There might be many things we could’ve done differently in the past. You, me, Morgana. But there’s no use in worrying over what-ifs. Maybe not everything will resolve into a happily-ever-after, and it’s not a magical solution to all the things that went wrong between her and all of us—but yes, I think we did the right thing.”

Arthur’s watching him, his eyes so very soft, and he reaches up to brush his thumb over Merlin’s jaw. “I just wish…” he starts, then shakes his head.

“Yeah, me too,” he says quietly, leaning against Arthur’s side and watching the waves crash against the rocky shore.

Visibly shaking himself, Arthur bumps their heads together. “For what it’s worth, you’re now stuck with me for good.”

Merlin grins, the rush of affection surging through him nearly choking him. “While that might be the case, do you know what’s also true?”

Arthur hums, raising his brows at him while his lips twitch with barely concealed laughter.

“You’re not getting rid of me anytime soon either.”

A quiet huff of laughter breaks out of Arthur, and the final remains of tension slip away from him. Wrapping an arm around Merlin’s shoulder and pulling his head against his neck, he says, “I think I’m alright with that.”

Merlin whole-heartedly agrees. Whatever the future stretching out in front of them has in store, he thinks they will be just fine. One way or another.

_The End._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap! I can't believe this is actually done. I want to thank everyone who left kudos and comments and bookmarks - I'm so happy that you enjoyed this story so much, and I hope the ending does it justice. ❤️
> 
> As you might've noticed, I added the fic to a new series, "The Future's Unwritten." I'm most likely not going to write a sequel of equal proportions, but I have a few ideas for one-shots set in the same universe; about their near and distant future, how things will go with Morgana, etc. So if you're interested, you can subscribe or bookmark. ❤️

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to hear what you think, Kudos and Comments are greatly appreciated. ❤️
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr](https://queerofthedagger.tumblr.com/)


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